Say You'll Remember Me(17)

“Torture,” I muttered. I pinched the bridge of my nose. “I think this is my fault,” I said.

She tilted her head to peer up at me. “Why?”

“I didn’t want the night to end. I think I willed this into existence.”

“Did you will the song to never end too? Because that’s the fucked-up part.”

“If I never hear a fiddle again…”

She was cracking up. I hugged her and put my nose to her hair. I was infinitely glad I’d given her the hoodie. The room was cold and we were huddled on the ground.

“Come On Eileen” stopped. We sat there in the five precious seconds of silence that we got every four minutes. Then it came on again.

She groaned. “This song is going to be my villain origin story.”

“You know what? I’m turning it off.”

She sat up and I got to my feet.

I had to climb the control panel to reach the speaker in the ceiling. I yanked the wires out of it and held them up victoriously while she cheered.

I peered around and my eyes settled on the camera. I felt instantly pissed off.

They didn’t bother to check it before leaving and then they’d get to replay our night in their little spaceship prison later and laugh about it—and they would replay it. They’d probably think this was hilarious.

She must have known what I was thinking.

“Cameras are expensive… they’re not speakers,” she said.

“They can sue me.”

I reached over and pulled the wires from the back of the camera and watched the little red light turn off.

She was grinning when I turned around. “My hero.”

I jumped down and sat against the wall again. She scooted up next to me and put her head on my shoulder. I wrapped my arms around her and when she breathed out, I went tighter.

“Are you cold?” I whispered. “Do you want my shirt for your legs?”

“Always trying to take off your shirt,” she said tiredly, snuggling into me. “What time do you think it is?”

“It feels like four a.m.”

“I want to lie down. Do you think they’ve ever cleaned this floor?” she asked.

“Never.”

“Ugh. Gross. Never mind.”

I tucked her under my chin and I wished we were in a bed. Not to do anything, just so I could make her warm and comfortable. Let her sleep.

I had the strongest, most pervasive feeling of protectiveness over her.

I didn’t like her on the ground. I didn’t like that she might need something that I couldn’t get for her here. She was calm and taking this well so it made me less agitated, but I had a feeling if she was panicking I’d be trying to rip through the walls.

“This is so unacceptable,” I grumbled. “I will be writing a very strongly worded letter.”

“You need to write a strongly worded Google review. It hurts more.”

I bet her Google review would be hilarious.

I tilted my head to look down at her. “Is it hard to make mustard interesting?”

“It is very hard to make mustard interesting. The sriracha and queso guys have it easy. Team Mustard’s in the trenches—I’m fighting for my life daily.”

“Do you like it though?”

“I do. I love it.” She looked up at me, her mouth a fraction of an inch from mine. “What about you? Do you like your job?”

“I like the animals.”

She laughed. “What does that mean? You hate the people?”

“Sometimes.”

Most of the time.

“I don’t like most people,” I said.

“Well, most people don’t like themselves. So the feeling is mutual,” she said. “Is that why you became an animal doctor instead of a human one?”

I let out a breath. I didn’t want to tell her the story of why I chose my profession. Not the real one anyway. So I told her the reason, not the canon event that led to it.

“I wanted to help animals. I wanted to lessen their suffering.”

“Ehhhh, no,” she said.

I cocked an eyebrow at her. “No?”

“No. I don’t buy it. I mean, I do? I’m sure that’s a part of it. But there had to be something you saw that led to that. Was it street dogs in Mexico? A visit to the shelter? A dog that died in your arms? What was your veterinarian moment of inception?”

“You don’t want that story.”

“Uh, yes I do.”

“That’s not a first-date conversation.”

“And are we currently experiencing a first-date activity, Xavier? ’Cause last I checked we were locked in a room with jars full of human heads.”

I laughed dryly. I stared at the digital clock, frozen on fifty-six minutes, debating how much to say.

“My dog growing up,” I said. “Winnie.”

“What happened to her?” she asked.

I didn’t answer.

“I haven’t unlocked this challenge yet?” she asked.

“No. Not yet.”

I looked back down at her. “Who was your first pet?”

“Are you changing the subject?”

“Maybe. But I do like this question.”

“Ha.”