Give it some, give it some, give it some time, But I think we're supposed to be

Part Six.

You're three years into dating Charles before you ever leave him and Buttons alone, together, for longer than a few hours. But he's on summer break, and your best friend is hosting her bachelorette party in Santorini, strictly no boyfriends allowed, and Charles is insistent that it will be totally, completely, utterly fine.

He tells you it'll be fine when she invites you, and again when you ask him if he's sure. He promises it'll be fine while he helps you pack, tossing his favorite of your bathing suits out of your closet and onto the bed for you to choose from. He kisses you at the door on your way out and picks Buttons up so you can press a kiss to his nose, too, and swears to you, again, that it'll all be completely and totally fine.

The first night, he texts you a picture of Buttons eating his dinner captioned, "bon ap !" The second, he sends a video of Buttons rolling around in catnip on the living room floor, his own laugh loud and loose in the background. It makes your heart ache, imagining the way his face crinkles up when he laughs, the way he folds in on himself when he can't stop laughing, his entire body shaking with it. It makes your heart ache, the fact that you're laid out on a sun lounger in Greece, white washed buildings and bright blue sky on all sides, and Charles' laugh is all you can think about.

On the third night of the four night trip, Charles calls you unexpectedly. You're four glasses of wine deep, legs crossed and pupils dilated, delirious with laughter at a restaurant. Plates and plates of Greek food sit in front of you and the four other girls, olives and feta and crispy tomatokeftedes, and the feeling of your phone vibrating against your thigh almost makes you jump and knock it all over. You say you need to take it, once you notice Charles' name flashing across the screen, and the girls boo you as you detangle yourself from the table, shouting after you that this is a girls night. You wave them off, cheeks flushing red, and step outside into the warm, glowing, Greek night.

"Hi," your voice is easy with the wine, your head swimming pleasantly. You lean back against the white brick wall of the restaurant, listening for Charles' voice. "I miss you."

" Chérie ," Charles sounds serious. "Are you able to talk?"

"What's wrong?" Suddenly, the heaviness of your head doesn't feel relaxing anymore. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," he rushes, "it's Buttons."

You find it impossible to speak, opening and closing your mouth like a gaping fish. Charles carries on quickly, before you get a single sound out.

"I think he's okay but we are at the emergency vet. I called right away as soon as I knew everything was under control. The vet is saying it should be fine but—"

"What happened, Charles?" You're pacing now, high heels clicking loudly against the cobblestone streets beneath you. You think briefly about all the history this place has seen, ancient feet and gladiator sandals walking the same stones as you.

"A few hours ago," Charles is saying, "I was noticing Buttons did not seem right. He was very lazy? Lethargic, I think, is what the vet said. He would not lift his head and he didn't want dinner. I was very worried. And then he threw up and I started to get even more worried. I called Lorenzo, I thought he would know, and he said maybe Buttons ate something that is bad for him."

"Charles, please," you feel desperate, hands clammy and eyes pricking with tears. The sounds of laughter and music from inside the restaurant seem a million miles away now. "Cut to the chase."

"Sorry, sorry, amore . I looked up what foods are dangerous to cats and I figured it out. Grapes, amore , I'm so sorry. I had been eating them, I left them on the counter, Buttons must have eaten some when I was not looking because when I went to check they were gone. Google said they are poisonous to cats so I took him to the hospital straight away, we are here now. Lorenzo is on his way, too, and—"