Into the Velvet

Twenty-Seven Days Until - Part 2

The emergency entrance to the nearest vet was around the back streets. We wasted no time. I parked Olly's four-wheel drive across two different car spaces. We jumped out of the car in unison.

Henry held the double door open for me, keeping a reassuring hand by the small of my back. The other arm kept the injured cat in a steady cradle. General Puss was still breathing, though his hind legs wore the worst of the damage.

"You're going to make it, little guy," I cooed at the bundle in Henry's arms. General Puss gave me a withering glare, ruing the day he'd ever met me. Mrs. Tucci was going to have a heart attack.

The desk attendant at least had his bearings. "Boy or girl?"

"Boy," I answered. "His name is General Puss. There was a car accident."

Henry had adapted to the situation well, but still couldn't get over that name. He shook his head in disbelief.

"And where did you say you found him?"

I opened my mouth and prepared to spill it all — how we'd taken an impromptu drive in the middle of the night, in an unfamiliar part of town. How it had been my fault. Henry and I together, side by side, illuminated by the light of the dashboard. Every smile had stressed his jaw line, deepening those adorable dimples, and my heart couldn't take it, galloping to his every intake of breath—

"We found him like this, by the side of the road," Henry interjected. No hesitation in his voice. A pre-formed story already in his head. Other vet assistants had emerged towards the scene. He handed over General Puss with noticeable relief. "Someone must've hit him and not realised it. We were so lucky to find him when we did."

I glanced at him furtively, feeling taken aback. Henry was a damned good liar.

They'd felt no need to pry into our story. The man at the desk nodded, asked a series of questions, and reassured us they would contact the owner of the pet. He made us fill the sign-in sheet.

I grabbed hold of the pen, noting with surprise that my palms were sweaty. This would be evidence, too. Mrs. Tucci would already be on her way — I pictured her rushing to the emergency vet in her fluffy cat bathrobe, demanding to know the identities of her cat's rescuers.

"Easy there," Henry murmured, taking the pen from my hands. Our skin made brief contact. He twisted the clipboard, so it faced him, and scribbled with ease. He'd already created a story for that, too.

I looked over at his shoulder anxiously, pressing closer. His script was so neat, so beautifully elegant. A calligraphy that belonged to another time in history. Almost distracting me from the lie he'd written.

Written on the sheet were the names Henry Cain and Elsie von Berswordt-Wallrabe, checking in at one-thirty-five in the morning.

I snorted. "A long name for a pseudonym. Really rolls off the tongue."

Henry gave me his charming smile.

This minor act was significant. I understood why. Henry and I couldn't be seen together, despite our growing attachment to one another. There was too much at stake. I knew that I was asking for was too much; far beyond what was conceivable. Regardless of whether he felt the same, I was naïve enough to want what I wanted.

The consequences seemed too removed. I had a hard time picturing the worst scenario. Who was I harming by following my heart? Henry didn't seem the type to make missteps; or so I believed. I was young, which afforded me the luxury of a spotless past. Making me naïve and careless. I hadn't made a wrong step yet. It was easy to believe that I couldn't. Even easier to believe that bad things only happened to other people who lived distantly from us.