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“There’s a pet emergency hospital only five minutes away,” I reassure her.

I back out of the parking spot, and I try my best to stay calm. I’m no use to Robin if I freak out; she needs me cool and collected. I drive as fast as I can, and I hope we don’t get pulled over. At this point, even if we did, I’d continue to drive Robin to the vet, no matter what.

Robin cries silently next to me, her earlier loud wails replaced by a more heartbreaking steady stream of tears. She has her cat pressed closely to her chest, his face resting on her cheek.

“It’ll be okay,” I say, aware my words mean nothing. I’m not quite sure she even hears me. I keep glancing over to her, but she’s completely lost in her pain.

As promised, I pull up to the veterinary clinic five minutes later and stop right in front of the door. “I’ll meet you inside,” I shout, and Robin is already halfway out the door. She hurries inside, and I quickly find a parking spot in the lot.

I sprint through the front door, the cold air from the air-conditioning a welcome reprieve from the hot intensity I feel. I spot Robin to my right, wildly gesturing to the assistant behind the counter. The young man speaks to her in a calm manner, his face full of kindness and concern. Behind him, a middle-aged woman with a short black bob is carrying Mortimer through a double door.

I walk to Robin and instinctively put my arm around her waist. The young man glances up at me and flashes me a polite smile.

“Are you with her?”

“Yes.”

“I was just telling her that we’re taking Mortimer into the examination room. You can wait out here, and we’ll come get you as soon as the vet knows what’s going on. There’s a water station in the back corner.” He points toward a small corner near the restrooms.

Robin simply nods, and I thank him. I guide her to the bench closest to the window, and we take a seat.

For the first time today, she fully looks at me. Her eyes are an even prettier shade of green from all the crying, her nose red, and it seems the tears she shed in the car have washed away the mascara streaks on her face.

I reach up and tuck her hair behind her ear, needing to touch her. I can’t stand seeing people sad. “He’s in good hands now.”

“I know,” she says weakly. “Thank you.”

“No need to thank me,” I say earnestly.

We don’t talk after that. We simply sit side by side, my shoulder touching hers as the minutes stretch by. There’s an older couple across from us, a big German shepherd stretched out in front of them. The dog seems calm, his big eyes steadily fixed on the front door.

A pretty brunette saunters out of the restroom and takes a seat, sighing deeply. When she makes eye contact with me, recognition flashes behind her eyes, and I want to groan. The universe seems to be out for me, because in front of me sits Cindy Rodriguez, a girl I went to high school with.

A girl I was supposed to go to prom with, but I got too drunk and passed out. In my defense, I never wanted to go in the first place, but she guilt-tripped me into it. It’s no excuse, I know. I was a dumbass.

Cindy stares at me, and I can see indecision flicker in her gaze. I mentally prepare myself for a snide comment, an onslaught of insults or anything else I deserve, but then her gaze lands on Robin beside me. Her expression shifts from annoyance to sympathy in a heartbeat. She sighs, gives me one last look that I can’t decipher, and then looks away.

Thankfully we don’t have to be in her presence for long, because two minutes later a vet assistant approaches her, a pink cat carrier in her arms. They speak in hushed voices before Cindy takes the carrier gently and walks out of the clinic without giving me another glance.

My relief is short-lived when we’re approached by the assistant. “Ms. Thomas?”

Robin’s head snaps up, and I instinctively brace myself for bad news.

“Would you mind coming with me?” She gestures for us to follow her.

I’m worried Robin will ask me to stay behind, but she lets me trod behind her. The assistant takes us through the double doors and into a small examination room. I expect to see Mortimer, but he’s not here.

Then comes a mountain of information. I don’t hear all of it because I’m more focused on Robin beside me, tuned in to her, ready to comfort her. I hear words like oxygen, catheter, urinary blockage, surgery, overnight stay, but I don’t know what any of it means.

Robin nods beside me and agrees to something. The assistant hands her the clipboard she’s been holding and a pen. Then she leaves us alone in the room.

“Fuck,” Robin utters besides me.

“He needs surgery?” I conclude, piecing together the words I heard.

“Yes,” Robin breathes out. She scans the document, her eyes widening. “This is going to be so expensive.” But she signs the document anyway. “I swear I can’t catch a break.”

“I’ll take it to them,” I quickly say and take the clipboard from her when she signs the final page.