Chapter 25
River
“You want to bring Lunch Lady Liz here?”
I blink dumbly.
Gabriel shrugs. “Sure. Lunchie’s the best.”
“But this place is so small . . .”
“So is the dog. It’s fine.”
He grabs the car keys off the elaborate hanger in the mudroom.
“She has a lot of stuff, and I wasn’t kidding about her puking. She does that sometimes.”
A flash of horror goes through me when I realize bringing her here might out me as a closet collector of about a hundred little dog sweaters and bows.
“I’m not too worried.”
“I just.”
I close my eyes and press the heels of my hands against them. “It complicates things.”
Gabriel’s mouth twitches. “What else are we going to do? Skye needs someone she trusts to take the dog.”
I swallow down thoughts of unease—thoughts of us taking care of the dog together. Not only will part of me be sad when this marriage ends—I can admit it—but if Lunch Lady Liz lives here, she’ll also have a hard time when Gabriel goes.
And I cannot even begin to think about how I’m going to explain to Skye the end of my marriage.
We’re quiet on the drive over to Jana’s house, which isn’t good because when things get quiet, I’m thinking about that kiss.
We arrive at Jana’s, and I wish I could video the expression on Gabriel’s face when we pick up Lunch Lady Liz. He looks excited. She does too, the shameless girl. Showering him with kisses, making him giggle. There’s no other way to describe it.
Gabriel is giggling over my sister’s dog.
Once we get all her stuff put in the car, Gabriel asks if we can stop off at Caring Souls to visit Skye and to let her see the dog.
Uh, if you want to ensure my heart’s going to break in a million pieces by this time next year, sure. We can go over there.
As we’re getting out of the Bronco with Lunchie, Gabriel places a hand on my forearm. “Is Antonio going to be here?”
I give a prolonged blink. “I have no idea. But it’s past five, so I doubt it.”
His dimples give a sort of triumphant roll. “Good.”
I ignore it.
My husband and his dimples are their very own ecosystem.
“Are you taking your vitamins?”
I ask Skye after she throws her hands around my neck. I return the hug, hard, and then step back to give her a once over. We’re in the courtyard outside of Caring Souls because, it turns out, they really are strict about no dogs inside.
Skye sticks out her tongue, her eyes crinkling shut.
“Skye, I’ll ask Jana to check in on you and make sure you take those. You could get sick. You’re being exposed to more germs now since you’re around so many people.”
“I’m not getting sick. I’m an adult,”
Skye insists.
“Adults get sick all the time.”
I pick up her hand and notice her chipped nail polish. “You painted your nails? What did you use? We ran out of the non-allergenic polish.”
I hiss in recognition. “Who put regular nail polish on your nails?”
“Sheramy. My friend.”
Skye pulls her hand away. “It’s almost all gone.”
I recognize the name Sheramy, and I think I remember which one of the residents she is. “I know, but—”
I stop and take a breath. I don’t know why I’m suddenly like this, all territorial and protective about nail polish, but I am, and I can’t stop now. “She’s allergic to the regular stuff,”
I tell Gabriel. “I got her some allergen-free polish, but we used it all and I haven’t replaced it.”
“I’ve never heard of an allergy to nail polish,”
Gabriel says. “That’s rough.”
I puff out a breath. “Well, okay, I don’t know if it’s an actual allergy. She got hives once when I painted her nails. It was a long time ago, but to be safe, we haven’t used the real stuff. It’s healthier for her anyway.”
Gabriel studies me.
“Did you get hives when Sheramy painted your nails?”
I ask Skye. “You know? Those weird, flat bumps?”
Skye interrupts belly rubbing Lunchie to shake her head.
“Maybe she’s okay now,”
Gabriel says. “Maybe it was a one-time thing.”
“I still need to say something to the case manager because it’s in her paperwork.”
“I gave Sheramy green nails.”
Skye cackles her cackly laugh. Homesickness hits me again.
“I’ve missed you, Skye.”
“I’ve missed my dog,”
she responds.
I try to laugh it off. I know what she means. But the thought of her actually being better off here, better off without me, makes my stomach burn with injustice. Theoretically, I want her to be as independent as possible. But still. It’s the great unknown. And the great unknown hurts sometimes.
You know what else really hurts? The guilt I feel over actually enjoying my free time on occasion now that Skye is at the group home.
I didn’t expect that. But when it hits, it reminds me of the whoosh of relief I used to get back in the day when I didn’t have to bring Skye to hangouts with friends. And then the guilt churns within me on repeat.
“Sounds like it was a nail painting night,”
Gabriel says.
She nods. “Girls’ Night. Friday night is Girls’ Night.”
They’re going to be painting nails every Friday night?
“Fun!”
Gabriel says to her. He’s sprawled on the grass a short distance from her. I’m perched in my chair, feeling rigid and unsettled. It might be a little extreme to pick her up from Girls’ Night every Friday to keep her safe from the big, bad, chemical-laden nail polishes.
I’ve operated as Skye’s protector for so long, I don’t know how to undo it. I don’t think I can.
After our visit, which Skye cut short because she had to do her cleaning assignment, we head home with the dog.
And can I just add that I’ve been trying to get her to do chores around the house for years and she somehow weasels her way out of them every single time?
I’m both jealous of, and impressed by, the staff at Caring Souls.
We get Lunch Lady Liz settled, putting her kennel in the bedroom and her food and water bowls in the mudroom, and then Gabriel starts cleaning. Taking out the trash, scrubbing the toilet, sweeping the floor. I clean the counters and give the windows a once over. It’s all so domestic and cozy. A nice Saturday for a nice little, albeit temporary, family.
In the middle of it all, I get his attention. “Hey Gabriel. Catch.”
I toss him a soft, rolled-up bundle. “Happy Second Anniversary.”
I watch as his dimples perk up when he slides the rubber band off the roll and unfurls the shirt I gave him.
“Cotton?”
he asks, all polite and grateful.
I smile sweetly. He’s not going to be grateful in a moment . . .
“I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes . . .”
he reads aloud.
I count the seconds of his silent reading in my head. It takes him three to shout a “Hey!”
His mouth drops open as he rereads it. “I told my wife she should embrace her mistakes. She gave me a hug.”
I drop my head back in laughter. “I can’t wait for you to wear my gift!”
“Oh, I’m going to wear this thing so much you’re going to beg me to burn it.”
Without warning, he rips his Henley off and tosses it onto the back of a chair. His torso is exactly as I imagined it would be, like the statue of David only better. Which is fitting considering we basically live in an art museum.
He slides the T-shirt over his head and I figure I better stop gawping.
I arrange my face in mock hurt. “You’d never burn my heartfelt gift!”
“Leather, River, leather.”
He rubs his hands together like he’s Mr. Burns from The Simpsons. “Week three is leather.”
“Now I’m seriously scared,”
I say, and I can’t stop the feeling of freedom in my chest as I laugh. Sometimes being married to Gabriel is actually kind of fun.
As I’m getting ready for bed, I put Lunch Lady Liz in her kennel and hear Gabriel using the pump to blow up his air mattress. Poor guy. I know this is not ideal.
I’m no sooner under the covers when Liz starts whining. “No,”
I shush. After some intermittent whines, I throw on my bathrobe, and take her outside to do her business, careful to tread quietly when I see a Gabriel-shaped lump. I put her back in her kennel, but she starts whining again. I can’t put her on the bed with me, it’s not even mine. I let her out of the kennel, and she darts to the door and starts scratching again.
“Is Lunch Lady Liz having some trouble?”
Gabriel asks through the door.
Crap. “Sorry. She won’t shut up.”
“I can help,” he says.
I reluctantly open the door, and she jumps up on him.
“Down, Liz!” I call.
“It’s fine,”
he insists as he picks her up and holds her in his arms. “You just missed Uncle Gabriel, huh?”
He hesitates. “Hey, why don’t you try to get some sleep, and I’ll keep her out here with me?”
“No, this is not your problem.”
He tries to cover the dog’s ears with his free hand. “You can’t call her a problem to her face.”
He pets the back of her neck and under her chin. “I’m good. River, we’re married. We’re supposed to share stuff like this.”
I almost open my mouth to protest, to say we’re only married legally, to insist that I get my way. But his gentle dimples are so convincing that I relent and wish him and that problematic dog good night.
A few minutes after I settle in the bed again, I get a text from Gabriel.
Oh no.