As Fergus turns the car onto my street, a strange sense of dread mixes with the exhaustion that’s causing my body to feel heavy. I envision returning to my quiet apartment, turning on the lights, and sitting in the living room with Hijinx. I’d do the same thing I do every night: some variation of reading, watching TV, and thinking way too much about Fergus. I could really lean into my spinsterhood and go to bed, even though it’s way too early.
Remembering what Dr. Woo said last night about doing something unexpected, I make a snap decision. “Are you in a hurry to get home?”
A passing street lamp illuminates the surprise on Fergus’s face. “No…did you want to go somewhere? I reckon most places are closed.”
“I was wondering if you’d like to come up for a bit.” The words come out so fast, they sound slightly garbled. When Fergus doesn’t answer right away, I think he must not have understood me, but as we approach my building, he veers around to the parking lot rather than pulling up in front of the dress shop.
“I’d love to,” he says.
A relieved breath rushes out of me and I cover it with a light cough. Fergus parks in my spot and we head inside and up to my apartment.
Hijinx greets us as soon as I open my front door. Fergus offers to hang up our coats and put away the food Mrs. Hathaway sent home with me, and I let him, because it gives me a moment to not only lavish Hijinx with affection, but also to collect myself. My tiny apartment feels so much smaller with Fergus in it. He has such a large presence and he seems to fill whatever space he’s in. I’ve almost convinced myself that’s the reason I’m constantly aware of him when he’s around, and why my senses are full of the warmth of his body, the sound of his voice, and the scent of his cologne and shampoo.
Maybe asking him up here tonight wasn’t such a good idea after all.
“Is it safe to assume you’re as full as I am?” I ask once Hijinx has apparently had enough of my love and has disappeared into my bedroom.
“Stuffed,” Fergus confirms.
I need to do something with my hands before they take on a mind of their own and reach for the man in front of me, so I offer him a drink. Thankfully, he asks for tea, which will give me a couple of minutes to rein in my feelings and remind myself Fergus is here as a friend and nothing more.
I take my time preparing the tea, even though there’s not much to it. At least the routine of it soothes my anxiety somewhat. When I finally set our tea on the coffee table and sit beside Fergus, Hijinx has returned and is curled up on Fergus’s lap, purring. The sight tugs at something in my chest.
“Your purse fell over and a bunch of stuff fell out,” Fergus says, waving a hand toward my purse, which is now sitting on the armchair beside the couch rather than the coffee table. “I tidied it up. Sorry if things aren’t where they’re meant to be now. I used to catch hell from my mum if I went anywhere near her purse, so I felt weird about touching your things, but didn’t want to leave them all over the floor.”
I hold back a laugh at his rapid-fire explanation. “It’s okay, there’s nothing in there I wouldn’t want you to see.” I reach to close the zipper all the way and notice a ragged piece of folded paper poking out of the small opening. Nothing but that.
“A bucket list of sorts?” Fergus asks, following my gaze.
“Of sorts,” I say faintly. “Did you…um…”
“Read it? Nah, ’course not. It unfolded when it fell out, so I saw the title at the top, but that’s it.”
My fingers itch to pull the list out. I don’t need to look at it to know what it says; I’ve read it countless times over the last five years. The items that haven’t been crossed off have been mocking me the last few weeks.
“Why a deadline, if you don’t mind me asking?”
“It’s stupid, really,” I say, wondering if there’s a tactful way to change the subject. Or maybe I could just jump up and leave the room under the pretense of checking on something. What is there to check on in this tiny space, though? Fergus’s curious, patient expression reminds me I can tell him anything. “I had a bit of a freakout before I turned thirty. I wasn’t in a great place mentally, and I felt like I hadn’t accomplished anything I wanted to. My friends assured me everyone has different paths and just because certain things hadn’t happened yet didn’t mean they wouldn’t. I suggested creating a practical five-year plan, and they countered with something else: a list of things—mostly fun things—I’d been putting off doing or that were outside my comfort zone, with a deadline of my thirty-fifth birthday.”
Fergus’s smile tells me he’s not surprised my friends would come up with an idea like that. “And did you accomplish everything?”
The ‘not quite’ that hovers on my lips would be a massive understatement; there are more unchecked items than ones I did accomplish. I shake my head and pull the list from my purse. “I took it seriously for a while, but then sort of forgot about it. I found it recently and have been carrying it around.”
“Can I see it?” he asks, holding out a hand. “Maybe I could help you check a few things off.”
Despite my hesitation—and embarrassment—I hand over the list. I hadn’t realized I’d been gripping it tightly until Fergus chuckles and gives a gentle tug, pulling it free from my grasp.
“Let’s see here.” He unfolds the paper, resting it against Hijinx’s back and smoothing out the well-worn creases. The cat doesn’t even move. “From all the different handwriting, I reckon your friends took over?”
“Of course they did,” I say with a laugh. “I couldn’t come up with anything at first, so they started throwing out ideas. I was only allowed to veto so many, and the ones that were a go went on the list.”
“Learn to drive is checked off. I didn’t think you drove?”
“I don’t drive, but I can,” I tell him. “I always knew my anxiety and driving wouldn’t mix, so I never bothered learning. I finally let Evie talk me into getting my permit and taking lessons, but I hated every second of it. Bellevue has a great transit system and is fairly walkable, plus all my friends drive, so…”
“No need to justify it to me, love,” he says with a gentle smile.
God, I love it when he calls me that. The first time he said it, I nearly melted into a puddle, although I quickly gave myself a mental slap and told myself he likely calls everyone that. In the two months I’ve known him, I’ve never heard him refer to anyone else that way, though. It’s ridiculous, but it makes me feel special. So does his easy understanding and lack of judgment of the things I normally keep hidden from people other than my closest friends.
Fergus murmurs to himself as he reads through several of the other items on the list. “I know the sushi making must have been a success because we’ve eaten sushi together. How much convincing did the tattoo take?” He nods toward my left arm where the small four-leaf clover bearing my initials and the initials of my three best friends is hidden under my sleeve.
“It was actually my idea.” At his incredulous look, I laugh and tilt my head to the side in concession. “Okay, it was Stella’s idea initially—she was the one who added it to the list, which I’m sure is no surprise—but I was the one who suggested the four of us get matching tattoos.”
He’s grinning as he returns to the list. He continues reading, making the occasional comment. “Do something brave isn’t checked off. I’m sure you’ve done plenty of things in the last five years that could apply.”
“Mm, you’re right.” I fish in my purse for a pen. “Want to do the honors and cross it off?”
He takes the pen, but doesn’t remove the cap. “Who added this one?”
“I did. Past Me clearly had issues with being vague, which is why I let the others come up with most of the ideas.”
Fergus nods slowly, tapping the page with the pen. “The list entry itself is vague, but I suspect you had something in mind when you wrote it.”
I usually love how well Fergus knows me. Right now, though? Not so much. I blow out a long breath and straighten in my seat. “When we wrote this list, I’d been thinking for a while about how I should get…not a ‘proper’ job because I have that, but something other than a work-from-home job. Or at least not exclusively from home, anyway. In an office or something, you know?”
Over the years, I’ve worked my way up to being more comfortable in public—with strangers, in unfamiliar places, in crowds. It’s not always easy, even after years of hard work and therapy. A few years ago, Dr. Woo suggested that since I work from home and could easily become too comfortable doing that—as in, it would be far too easy to only go out when prompted, like to shop or see friends—I should volunteer. I took her advice and started somewhere familiar: the Belle Vie Community Services Center, where Hollie works. I’ve stocked shelves, helped in the meal center, and participated in food drives. Once I felt I’d mastered that, I also started volunteering at the local animal shelter, walking dogs and playing with the more sociable animals like Hijinx who craved interaction while they waited to be adopted.
“I love working from home, but it’s a crutch in a way,” I continue. “Ideally, I’d keep working mostly from here, but mix in a few hours a week in an office setting. I can’t imagine finding a boss who would be understanding enough to accommodate my weird requests, though.”
Fergus’s lips are pulled to one side, and he appears deep in thought. When he notices me watching him, his expression clears. “Something to think about in the new year, perhaps.” He returns to the list, tapping the pen on the paper as he reads. “Ahh, here’s one you’ll be able to check off by the end of the week: Host a fancy party.”
He means New Year’s Eve, which Hollie offered to host at her place this year. When Spencer invited her to spend the holidays in London with him, Hollie wanted us to go ahead and have the party at her place since she’d already bought decorations and some of the food and alcohol. My birthday is the same day as the party, but I’ve always hated being the center of attention, so each year, my friends throw a small celebration on the thirty-first with my choice of breakfast or lunch, and a cake. I’ve always secretly considered our New Year’s Eve parties as ‘for me’ but without the proverbial heat of the spotlight or people giving me gifts, which suits me just fine.
“I guess you’re right,” I say slowly. “It’s at Hollie’s house and I’ll have a lot of help from the girls, but Hollie did ask me to step in as hostess.”
Fergus nods once as if it’s decided. “One down, then. There must be others…” His gaze moves slowly down the list. “‘Spend a night under the stars’. Not sure there’s anything we can do about that one in this weather. This one’s out too: ‘Spend your birthday in New York City and watch the ball drop in Times Square at midnight’. Can you explain to me how this one ended up on the list because…well, have your friends met you?”
I laugh and shove Fergus’s arm playfully. “When I was little, my parents and I always watched the TV footage of the ball drop. It was the one night each year I was allowed to stay up late, and they always made a huge deal of it because it was my birthday. We’d have all my favorite foods for dinner, then cake and snacks throughout the evening as we watched the performances and waited for midnight. My mom always said we’d do it in person someday, but…” I trail off. There’s an unmistakable glimmer of sympathy in Fergus’s eyes, so I charge on before he can say anything.
“The tradition ended after my mom died, but the girls picked it up again the next year. As for going to New York, the thought of the crowd absolutely terrifies me, but there’s always been this part of me that thinks it would be thrilling. And that my mom would be proud of me for doing it.”
“That’s a lovely thought,” Fergus says, patting my hand where it rests on my thigh. He lets his hand linger and I’m tempted to turn mine over and lace our fingers together, the way he did last night. I can’t bring myself to do it, of course, and I swallow a sigh when Fergus pulls his hand away and returns to the list once more.
“Huh,” he says, tapping the paper again. “This final one is interesting: ‘Kiss the man of your dreams before midnight on your birthday-slash-New-Year’s-Eve’.”
Heat floods my cheeks so fast and with such intensity, it feels like they’re going to burst into flames. I aim for a lighthearted, carefree laugh that comes out sounding like a strangled duck. I pluck the list from his fingers, but he stops my shaking hands as I mangle the paper in my attempt to refold it.
“Wait.”
I freeze, waiting for him to continue and wondering what he’s about to say. I think I’m even holding my breath.
He squints and points at the paper. “That’s not the last item on the list. There’s something on the back.”
The air rushes from my lungs. “Oh, no, that’s just a little scribble I did. Grocery list or something when I didn’t have any other paper handy.”
He gives me a wry look. “Lulu.”
Lulu—or even Little Lulu—is a nickname my closest friends have used for as long as I can remember. It’s different when Fergus says it, though. Between his deep voice and the way his accent wraps around the vowels, it feels like a whole new name. It lowers my defenses and, despite the lingering embarrassment at knowing what he’s about to read, I hold out the paper.
“I won’t read it if you don’t want me to,” he says solemnly. I simultaneously press my lips together, shake my head, and wave a hand for him to go ahead. He watches me for a moment, one side of his mouth twitching like he’s trying not to laugh. “This handwriting is much different from the others.”
I start to speak, but the words come out choked. I clear my throat and try again. “My grandma wrote it.”
Fergus lowers the paper and gives me his full attention. I love that about him and yet, in this moment, I wish he’d look anywhere else. I rarely talk about my grandmother. She was my mom’s mother; my dad’s parents died when I was a baby. When my mom died, Grandma moved in with Dad and me, which was equally wonderful and awful. While it was comforting to have a living piece of my mom with us, it was also painful because she was, naturally, lost in a haze of her own grief. I hoped she’d be an ally against my dad when he pulled me out of high school, laid down a whole new set of rules, and tried to keep me wrapped in a proverbial bubble to keep me safe from the big, bad world. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the case.
My dad died when I was twenty. By then, I’d developed what would soon be diagnosed by Dr. Woo as agoraphobia. I was taking some college courses online because Dad didn’t want me going away to school and I was such an anxious mess, I couldn’t bear the thought of attending classes at the local college. With my grandmother’s help, I got into therapy, started taking medication, and began attending school part-time. We stayed in my childhood home until I was ready to sell it. At that point, Grandma moved into a nursing home and I moved in with Hollie for a while until I felt steady enough to live on my own.
In some deep recess of my mind and heart, there’s a part of me—a part I hate to acknowledge—that resents my grandma for never speaking up, and for allowing my dad to basically make me afraid of the world. She came through after he died, though, and we developed a close relationship, which is why I feel guilty for admitting those feelings, and have only ever said them out loud to Dr. Woo.
I clear my throat again. “I knew Grandma would get a kick out of the list, so I showed it to her. She asked if she could add something, and I allowed it without question.”
I was hoping it would be something that would give me guidance and help me feel less lost. Without having to tell her, I knew she understood the reason for the five-year deadline: my mom was thirty-five when she died.
I watch Fergus’s face closely as he reads the final item on the list. He takes so long, I assume he’s reading it more than once. When he lifts his head to meet my eyes, I can’t decipher his expression. The soft smile is back in place, but there’s something unfamiliar in his eyes. Something that makes my breath catch.
“‘Fall in love with a wonderful man and let him take care of you’,” he says. “Your granny was a romantic, I take it.”
“I’ve gone back and forth over the years about whether it’s romantic or just old-fashioned and kind of sexist.”
Fergus sputters out a laugh. “Explain, please.”
“Love isn’t something to be crossed off a list, you know? It shouldn’t have a timetable.” A hint of defensiveness creeps into my voice. Privately, when Grandma wrote that, I’ll admit I thought it was possible. Five years to start dating, find a wonderful man, and fall in love? Why not? But here I am, just days away from turning thirty-five, I’ve barely dated, and my one experience with a relationship was a joke. “I also don’t need a man to take care of me. I may have had a later start than most and I’ve experienced plenty of missteps along the way, but I can take care of myself.”
Fergus sets the paper aside and reaches for my hand. I love when he does this; love the feel of his long fingers engulfing mine. “I know you can take care of yourself, just as I’m sure your granny did. You’re brave and smart and independent, but that doesn’t mean you can’t let someone take care of you now and again. Maybe your gran didn’t mean it in an archaic way, but rather as a mutual caretaking. The kind where two people look after each other. Personally, that doesn’t sound so bad to me.”
I hum in acknowledgment, keeping my gaze on his fingers wrapped around mine. “I suppose that wouldn’t be so bad.”
Fergus lifts my hand and kisses my knuckles. Inside my head, a little voice screams with glee and I nearly expire on the spot. It’s not the first time he’s done it, but it feels different tonight somehow, maybe because we’re alone and I’m feeling vulnerable.
“If you let me, I think I can help you cross a few things off your list,” he says.
I want to tell him it’s not important. The list was meant to be fun, and the date is arbitrary; I don’t need to check items off a silly list to feel accomplished. Still, a little thrill zips through me at the thought of Fergus helping me. Of getting to spend more time alone with him, like last night and most of today. “We only have a few days, though.”
Fergus’s eyes twinkle in a way that says ‘challenge accepted’. “Guess we’d better get started then, hadn’t we?”