The Lovely Reckless(80)
I touch her shoulder. “He’s your brother. You can still say his name around me.”
It takes three of us to hold the milk crate in place and slide the gigantic cookie sheet under Cyclops—plus two extra pairs of boxing gloves. I end up wearing the gloves and the work jacket Daniel borrowed, because our makeshift cage requires someone to hold it together. Cyclops thrashes at first, until the pain wins out and he slumps against the side of the crate.
Ava and Cruz pull into the parking lot. Cruz takes one look at me wearing the red boxing gloves and carrying the crate, and shakes her head. “You can’t bring that thing in my car. If it gets loose, it will tear us up—and my leather seats.”
Daniel walks beside me holding the milk crate in place.
“Cyclops could die,” I say. “We need to take him to an animal hospital now.”
Cruz rolls her eyes and climbs in the backseat. “You’re going to a lot of trouble for a one-eyed stray cat.”
Cyclops is more than a stray cat. There’s only one person who understands that, and I can’t call him.
*
The waiting area in the animal hospital smells like antiseptic and wet dog. I’m alone, holding a pair of shredded boxing gloves in my lap.
“I don’t do hospitals,” Cruz announced as soon as we pulled up to the building. Ava helped me carry the milk-crate cage inside and then retreated to the car and her sister.
The vet took one look at Cyclops—a ball of matted hair and blood—and rushed him through a door marked MEADOWBROOK DOWNS VETERINARY HOSPITAL STAFF ONLY.
That was eighteen minutes ago.
I called Lex and told her Cruz was driving me home. I didn’t tell her about Cyclops. If he doesn’t make it, I want to be alone when the vet tells me. It feels like Cyclops is Marco’s cat and, in a weird way, like he’s mine, too.
Outside the window a skyful of stars blink above me, and it’s easy to forget I’m in the Downs. Marco doesn’t have the luxury of forgetting. I realize that’s what he meant when he said the stars look different from the Downs.
My cell rings, and I make the mistake of answering without checking the display.
“Frankie? Where are you, and why aren’t you home yet?” Dad. Perfect.
“I’m at an animal hospital. A cat from the rec center got mauled by a dog.”
Silence.
“If you don’t believe me, feel free to come down here and check out the cat blood all over my clothes. Or call Miss Lorraine.”
“When are you coming home?” he asks.
So much compassion. “When I find out if the cat is okay.”
“I’m calling you in forty-five minutes.”
“Fine.” I hit end without saying good-bye. Tense doesn’t begin to describe our relationship.
My cell rings again and I ignore it. Dad can text whatever he forgot to say. I’m sure he’ll call back in two minutes anyway. I pull my knees up tight against my chest and rest my forehead against them.
The knotted rope of bells on the hospital door jingle and Marco walks in. He stops, and the door hits his back. He has fresh bruises on his face. A cut runs down the center of his bottom lip, and a ripped T-shirt is tied around the knuckles on his right hand.
My first day at Monroe was the only time I’ve ever seen a mark on him.
I point at his lip. “What happened?”
Marco shrugs and leans against the wall beside the door. “Ran into a guy’s elbow.” He keeps his eyes fixed on the floor.
“And your hand?”
He frowns and turns his wrist, as if he forgot about the injury. “A guy ran into my fist. Do you care?”
I rest my chin on my knees. “Of course I do.” I shouldn’t say more, but I can’t stop myself. “I’ve never not cared about you.”
“Sofia called and told me what you did for Cyclops.” He glances at the door designated for employees only. “You could’ve gotten hurt. Why would you do something crazy like that for a stupid cat that doesn’t belong to you?”
“Maybe for the same reason you feed him.”
Marco rubs the cut on his lip with the side of his hand, and my heart skips. “How long have you known?”
“Since before…” I kissed you. “The night of the party.”
He sits in the chair next to mine. “Throwaways like me and Cyclops have to stick together.”
Hearing him talk about himself that way makes me want to kill his father … and mine. “Don’t call yourself that. Please.”
Muffled voices drift into the waiting area from the other side of the door. A moment later, a vet comes out.
“Is he going to be okay?” Marco asks.
The vet tucks her hands in the pockets of her white coat and gives us a sympathetic smile. “It’s hard to say. Your cat lost a lot of blood, and he’s in shock.”
Marco reaches over and takes my hand. The familiar buzz starts in my fingertips.
“If he makes it through the night, I’ll be more optimistic.” She holds out a bill.
Marco takes it and follows her to the counter. He opens his wallet and pays in cash. I bet all the money I had left racing Ortiz.
“Leave a number and we’ll call you if anything changes,” she says.
“Thanks.” Marco scribbles down a number.