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“All right.” She blew out a long, slow breath. “What if we focus on this event? You know, be in the now, and we’ll see how it all shakes out.”
“Sure,” I muttered. I lifted her hand and kissed the back of it.
We walked through the front doors of the shelter and into the shutter-clicking madness of paparazzi. I sighed, wishing I could be anywhere that meant keeping Aya to myself.
Instead, we were here at the shelter.
The director pushed through the mass of reporters, looking slightly frazzled. Nancy Pratt was a graying version of Miss Frizzle, The Magic School Bus teacher on the PBS show that Lev had watched every single day when he was in first grade. For some reason, he’d found the weird teacher a comfort. He used to read me some of the books once our mom was too busy filming or doing press to read to us at night. I learned a few things, too.
Thanks, Lev and Miss Frizzle.
Thinking about my brother didn’t gouge my heart the way it used to, and I heaved a full breath, thankful I’d had this remembrance now, which brought a warm glow to an otherwise fraught moment.
“Mr. Porter! Thank you so much for coming.” Nancy beamed.
“Of course. And this is Aya. She’s…my love.”
A stunned silence ensued. Even the camera shutters paused. Aya shifted, her linen-clad hip rubbing against my thigh. The shocked silence dragged on.
“We attended Holyoke together for a few years before Aya’s mother died and her father moved her to England. A mutual acquaintance helped us to reconnect, and here she is. I couldn’t be happier.”
We’d discussed the best course of action with Hugh and decided I should volunteer a few details so the paps could write about that. Maybe if I doled out dribs and drabs of information, they’d remain satisfied.
I doubted it.
Still, Aya beamed up at me, her smile mega-watts brighter than the stadium lights. I kissed the tip of her nose.
“I like that you call me your love,” she whispered.
“That’s what you are,” I said. “What you’ve always been and always will be.” I kissed her nose again, ignoring the collective gasps. Yes, yes, I never did public displays of affection. Mainly because those other women weren’t Ay. With her, I couldn’t help myself.
“What happened to your hand?” someone called out.
I scanned the room, unsurprised by the avid hunger on so many faces.
“I hit a wall.”
“Is it broken?”
“Will you be able to use it for your next leg of the tour or will it get pushed back again?”
“The tour’s on,” I said. “This will heal, and I’ll be back out there for the fans. We owe them.”
I waved goodbye and squeezed Aya’s hand as we followed Nancy down the hallway toward the outdoor pen where they’d put the cats. Thankfully, the press couldn’t follow us here.
“What, exactly, do you want to get out of this visit?” I asked Nancy. “I mean, besides publicity for the shelter?”
“Donations and a lot of adoptions,” was her reply.
“Cool. I’ll see what I can do about adoptions, but Hugh has a check for you to keep this place no-kill.”
Hugh stepped forward and handed her the check. Her eyes widened and then filled with tears. She pressed it to her chest and sniffled.
“Bless you, my boy. Bless that sweet heart of yours for saving so many of these darling animals.”
I smiled, but it was forced. I wasn’t doing this for publicity or thanks.
Ever since Aya had told me about her wish for a cat in that text years ago, I’d made a point to visit these kinds of places. Sure, in the beginning it had been punishment for screwing us up, but I’d quickly realized I loved animals. By my second or third trip to a shelter, I no longer considered it penance. I enjoyed spending time petting and playing with the animals too much.
