Page 65 of Gold Rush

“I was waiting for you to get home.”

This wasn’t planned. And for as long as I’ve known her, Rory has thought things through. Even this crazy idea to be a fake couple, she gave it serious consideration. But she saw a deranged-looking feline and impulsively decided to bring it home. I’m sort of proud of her for that.

So, I give the pizzas a longing glance, then scoop up the cat and head for the tub.

An hour later, I’m fighting a series of swears as Rory dabs a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide on one of the many red scratches covering my arms. The only distraction from the stinging is the ringing in my ears from the nonstop yowling. How such a tiny animal can create such a loud sound defies logic.

“Sorry,” she repeats when I can’t hold in a wince.

“It’s fine,” I grit out, glancing at the feline sitting by the front door, as far away from us as possible, delicately licking one raised paw.

Quiet and calm, like she didn’t just eviscerate me with her claws. Our third roommate turned out to be female beneath matted fur, not male, like the shelter told Rory.

“Last one,” Rory says, grabbing a fresh cotton ball and patting it against the raised line that crosses the crease of my elbow and runs inside my bicep.

Some of her hair falls forward, blonde strands brushing another scratch so gently that it doesn’t even hurt. I study her while she focuses on administering medical care, diligent and determined that I don’t wind up with an infection.

“How was your day?”

She glances up, hand stilling. Our close proximity—essentially the opposite of the space I intended to give her—seems to hit her for the first time.

Her eyes widen briefly before she replies, “Fine.”

“Fewer details next time, please. I feel like I was there.”

A reluctant smile appears. “Nothing that exciting happened. I don’t want to bore you.”

“There’s nothing you could say that I would find boring.”

The response comes naturally because it’s true. I find Rory fascinating. I always have.

She starts dabbing my arm again. “No one is here except Fluffy. You don’t have to fake flirt with me.”

“That was a fact, not flirting. Also, we’re not naming our cat Fluffy.”

“He—I mean, she came with that name. And it’s my cat, Flynn.”

“Uh, one of us fled the bathroom, and it wasn’t me. That’s worth a name vote at least. I might have permanent scarring.”

Rory sighs, leaning back and tossing the final cotton ball in the trash. “Thank you for helping with her bath.”

I sigh, too, sensing she’s about to stand and walk away. “I talked to my dad earlier.”

“Was it a good talk?”

I scoff. “No such thing.”

Twin lines appear between her eyes as Rory studies me with what appears to be concern. I like it less than I did when she was cleaning my cuts. Closer to pity.

“We’re invited for dinner on Saturday night.”

“You don’t want to go?” Rory’s tone is tentative.

I know I’m not providing a whole lot of context about my relationship with my parents. Especially with my dad. Truthfully, I’ve never bothered to explain it to anyone. From the outside, our family appears fully functional. My parents are involved in my life. Overly involved, in my father’s case. They’ve never neglected me. Julian is the reason I have a degree, let alone multiple. I’m grateful to him, yet I also resent him.

And all of that is especially difficult to explain to Rory, who I know has a very different relationship with her parents. Oliver and Hannah are so, so proud of her, and they would be even if she hadn’t accomplished all that she has.

“No. I don’t want to go. But we should. He heard we’re dating and …”