No Damaged Goods

Warren chuckles. “That big ol’ poofball does more sleeping than sneaking these days. The kids spoiled him rotten over Christmas with scraps of turkey and ham. He’s got himself a buddy, too.”

“Yeah, that big grey monster with the ears chewed off. You’ve got yourself a two-cat household to go with the two munchkins. What’re you calling the new guy again?” I scratch my neck.

“Van Gogh. Hay’s idea. I wanted to keep the crazy composer naming thing going, but…” He shrugs.

“No worries, man. Still got your two babes and two big cats beat with one angry teenager, love her to death.” I flash him a grin.

Leo grimaces, the inked burn scars down his neck and jaw pulling tight. “Guess I’m up next with the terrible teens, huh? Shit.”

I grin. “Zach is fuckin’ smart, dude. Like, Andrea’s honor roll, but Zach’s like…”

“Don’t say it,” Leo grumbles. “I caught him trying to build a particle accelerator out of kitchen tools.”

He’s groaning, but there’s clear pride.

Yeah. I get it.

I get it far too well.

“August will catch up to him soon,” Doc says with a sniff, pushing his glasses up his nose, his sharp green eyes glinting. “She’s quite the wit. Takes after her father, naturally.”

I laugh. “Little Gus ain’t even talking yet, let alone walking or building things. Give it ten years, man. Then maybe she’ll join you and her mama at your vet clinic.”

He growls. “Do not call my daughter Gus.”

That just makes me grin wider. “Aw, why not? You call your wife Ember instead of September.”

“I—”

Leo cuts us off with a patient sigh. “C’mon, boys. Don’t start. I think we’re all too tired for the comedy bit tonight.”

“I feel that,” I say, offering Doc a smile as an olive branch.

He sniffs again, looking away from me in that cool way he has, but it ain’t hard to tell I’m forgiven.

If I wasn’t, he’d have flipped me off.

“Hey,” I add. “You need any help with her? The first kid’s always the toughest, and you and Ember are plenty busy chasing animals at The Menagerie. Ain’t she gonna be teething soon?”

In half a second, that icy demeanor vanishes and Doc winces, sagging and burying his fingers in his hair. “She already is. I feel like I haven’t slept in years.”

“Now, now, she can’t have been fussing more than a few days, young as she is.” I nudge him with my elbow. “Listen, I got a few tips to help her calm down. Andrea was a fussy teether, too.”

Doc gives me a haggard look.

“Please,” he says. “Teach me the wisdom of your ways. I had to let Ember deliver an entire litter of kittens on her own this week because I nearly fell asleep in the delivery room.”

“Well then,” I say. “Strap in, and let the advice man tell you what’s up.”

* * *

There’s something about helping people that takes me outside myself.

Think that’s why I like it so much.

Feels like I’ve been stuck in a rut for so long, I’d damn rather deal with somebody else’s. Most folks look at their lives as a line from beginning to end, stretching clean through space.

Me, though?

My life’s kind of like that line came to a screeching halt.

The night Andrea’s mother died, somebody just picked up the pen and made the line cut short, but that whole damn piece of paper’s still there, sprawled out in front of me.

It’s like I was supposed to die too when the ink line stopped, but since I didn’t…

Now, I’m just waiting in blank white limbo, wondering what I’m even here for.

I mean, nah. I know who I’m here for.

Andrea’s reason enough to wake up in the morning and haul my bones out of bed. She’s everything.

But one fine day she’s gonna be fully grown up and gone, and then what?

Who the fuck am I gonna be?

The funny man on the radio who alternates love advice with wild late-night conspiracy rumors, I guess. The dude who puts out fires.

Because I’d rather focus on other people’s problems than that blank sheet of paper. And that’s what has me laughing, completely absorbed in my buddies as we trade tips and horror stories back and forth about our kids.

It’s a weeknight, though, and before I know it I gotta get home to make sure Andrea does, too.

My beer’s worn off. I’m clearheaded as I clap my guys on the shoulder and stand.

That’s when I catch sight of Justin, who sure as hell ain’t clearheaded at all.

He’s slumped over a barstool, head on the bar, damn near drooling. His fingers are curled stubbornly in a half-filled beer mug’s handle while the bartender tries uneasily to tug it away from a grip that just won’t relax.

Goddammit, poor kid.

I have an inkling why he’s gone all soggy tonight.

He always does around this time of year.

Something about the dead of winter brings out the loss in a whole mess of people in this little town, not just yours truly.