Chapter 17
CHAPTER
SEVENTEEN
By the time I make it back to my mom’s, the clouds have started to descend over the edge of the mountains.
The air has actually warmed since I dropped Rufus off, but it hasn’t begun raining.
I’m sure the highway will be a mess before I get home.
I just want to get back to Denver and into a pair of leggings so I can do some squats or something to control my heart rate.
When I walk up her front steps, everything seems surprisingly calm. I’m not sure what I expected to find. The house in flames? Half-eaten? First responders gathered on the street, trying to save her from the dog?
I let myself in with a light knock to announce my arrival, which inadvertently summons the beast. Rufus comes barreling out of the kitchen, barking like a hellhound—vicious and snarling, ready to tear out my jugular.
But as he registers me, his booming bark shifts into that godforsaken low-level whine.
He runs two circles around me, then leans against my legs, tongue hanging out and tail wagging, plastering golden hair all over my dress.
“He seems pretty attached to you.” My mom chuckles.
“Well, I’m not attached to him.” I sink into a chair and touch the top of his head lightly, grimacing when he shoves his nose into my hand. “What’s the damage?”
“He pooped in my flower bed. But when he wasn’t checking out the window to see if you’d come back, he mostly worked on this,” she says, handing me the empty Kong. “He did seem to get more agitated in the last half hour, though.”
I roll my eyes. “The vet said it’ll take a while for the Prozac to start working.”
“I’m not sure if it’s just anxiety.” She pats his head, and he leans in like he enjoys it, but his eyes stay trained on me. “See what I mean? He just adores you.”
“More proof there’s something wrong with him.” I fold my arms and look away.
Mom stays quiet. When she doesn’t say anything else, I glance back, and her face is thoughtful. “We couldn’t afford to have pets after your dad left. I always regretted that—learning to love animals is so good for children.”
I bristle at the mention of my father. As a successful attorney, Anthony Phipps could have easily provided for us, but he chose not to. She almost never mentions him, which suits everyone. But right now her gaze is far away.
I want to tell her I regret every other sacrifice she made raising us on her own, setting her dreams aside because she was too proud to pursue child support. But my mom isn’t the one who deserves that ire.
“Kyle was always convinced he could change my mind about dogs,” I grumble.
Her face softens as she strokes Rufus’s ears. “How did it go at the school?”
I glance out the window at the incoming wall of clouds, thinking again of Drew’s stormy eyes. “Fine. They awarded the scholarship to Tania Riley’s cousin.”
“Oh, nice.” She nods, then asks more quietly, “Did you talk to the Forbeses?”
“Unfortunately.” I curl my lip. “In case you had any doubt, they’re still assholes. I’ll just write my article about Kenyon.”
She shakes her head mutely, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore, so I rise from my chair, collecting my purse and Rufus’s things.
“Thanks again for dog sitting, Mom. I promise I’ll come by the gallery soon.”
Her eyes light up. “I have a new photographer I’d love you to meet.” She laughs at my expression and slips Rufus an extra treat. “But if it means I’ll see you more often, I’ll watch my ‘granddog’ anytime you want.”
I stop and look at her. “Please don’t ever call him that again.”
She winks, but I can tell she has more to say as I clip the leash to Rufus’s collar.
“You know, I did a little searching while you were gone. It’s unusual for a military dog this young to be retired.”
“Oh yeah?” I say, eyeing the sky as we step outside.
She nods. “Normally, if something happens to the handler . . .” She glances at me, her pale cheeks flushing pink. “Well, anyway, there must have been a good reason they discharged him.”
I frown, looking at the dog, who glues himself to my leg. “Maybe he ate some five-star general’s couch.”
We make it home just as large drops of rain begin splashing down on the sidewalk.
The sky is almost completely black, and there’s no break in the clouds on the horizon.
But even after I’ve changed into workout clothes and completed thirty minutes of squats and lunges in my living room, my mood hasn’t improved.
I am sick thinking about Kyle’s parents and their decision to “honor” his memory—forcing him to fit their mold, even now.
It’s almost enough for me to understand the choice he made.
Except I could never understand that choice.
Saturday, March 20, 20__, 7:09 PM
To: Kyle.Forbes@
From: Caprice_Phipps@
Subject: Re: Re: Re: no subject
Dear Kyle,
I had to see your family today. If you thought your parents would change with you gone, you were wrong. They’re actually worse. Please come back from the grave and haunt the shit out of them. I’m doing the best I can with Rufus, but I have no idea what I’m doing.
Why did you do this to me?
C
I make myself a mug of tea and settle in front of my laptop at the counter. I’ve felt like some kind of void opened inside me since I turned in my Unmatched piece. Maybe the sooner I write about this stupid scholarship instead, the faster it’ll go away.
But like everything today, it’s so much harder than it should be.
I spend way too long typing, then deleting.
Writing out words I want to say, then replacing them with the words I need.
In the end, I wind up drafting two entirely different pieces.
One that feels like my life’s most mediocre piece of journalism, and another that feels like the beginning of something so real, I have to close it and bury it in a hidden folder just so I can breathe.
By the time I send off the boring, official version to my editor, my apartment is almost fully dark, and the silence is only broken by a low rumble of thunder.
The silence.
I turn on my stool, scanning my small living space. Rufus isn’t on the couch carcass where he’s taken to sleeping. He also isn’t pacing the room whining or crying, sleeping in his crate, or in the kitchen getting a drink. I don’t see him anywhere.
A flash of lightning suddenly illuminates my whole apartment, and I spot a shape on the floor between the remnants of the couch and my coffee table. In the dark, it almost looked like part of the rug, but now I recognize the furry legs and black-tipped tail.
I slide off my stool, approaching cautiously. His head and shoulders are fully under the couch frame, which I’ve never seen him do except briefly to retrieve his Kong. But he’s just lying there, not moving. I reach out an unsteady hand to touch him, and when I do, his whole body is trembling.
“Rufus?” I say, glancing at my kitchen clock. “It’s um . . . it’s time for your walk.”
Last week, “walk” had been this animal’s favorite word. Anytime I said it, he’d drop everything and run to the door where I keep his leash. Now he doesn’t even shift.
“Rufus? Are you hungry?”
I go to the kitchen and fill his dish with food. Another thing that normally has him sitting at eager attention in front of me. I bring the food dish close to his head and give it a little shake, but he remains still. Something tightens in my belly.
I find this half-stuffed llama thing he has been systematically destroying. The squeaker still works, and normally when I pick it up, he spins in circles wanting to play. But now, when I squeeze it right next to him, he makes no response.
I pull out my phone and dial Lydia. Get her voicemail immediately.
I dial again, and it’s the same. Somewhere in the back of my mind, I remember her saying Anton was planning a date for them this weekend. Was it tonight? That would figure. Her husband would totally get in the way right when I could really use her advice.
Another flash of lightning brightens the room, then we’re plunged back into darkness. I flip on the lights just as the requisite rumble of thunder rolls through. The dog still doesn’t move, but I can see him shaking.
I sink to my knees and turn on my phone’s flashlight, trying to see his face jammed under my couch. He’s turned at an angle, facing away, but my eyes widen when I notice a clear liquid puddle of drool under his muzzle.
I sit up. Touch his body again. He shudders and tenses.
I dial the vet, aware of my pulse picking up. But it’s after five on a Saturday, and I get a message saying they’re closed. It directs me to call an emergency number, so I do.
“Hi, this is Veterinary Emergency. How can I help you?”
“Um, hello.” I clear my throat, my voice weirdly choked. “Uh, there’s something the matter with my dog. I . . . I’m kind of worried?”
The voice is calm. “Sure. Can you describe what’s going on?”
“Well, he’s under the couch and he won’t respond to anything.”
“What kind of dog is this? How old is he? Has he eaten anything recently? Is there a chance he swallowed something he shouldn’t have?” The questions come so fast I can hardly follow. “What’s his respiration? Have you taken his temperature?”
“His temperature?” I touch his limp tail on the floor. How do you even do that? “Look, I don’t have a lot of equipment. He isn’t that old—can you just tell me what’s wrong?”
“Not without getting a picture of what might have happened, unfortunately. If you’re not sure, you might want to bring him in so we can examine him.”
I jot down the address before darting into the hall and knocking on Darius and Todd’s door. When nobody answers, I knock harder. The elevator pings behind me, and my neighbor Arlene gets out wearing one of those plastic rain bonnet things over her gray-blue hair.
“Boy, I tell you, it’s cats and dogs out there. I nearly got soaked just getting from my Uber into the building.” She pauses, looking at me banging like an idiot on Darius’s door. “You know those boys went down to Mount Princeton for their anniversary.”
“I . . . they did?”
She nods with a warm smile. “My husband used to take me down there. Hot springs are so romantic.”
For a moment I consider begging her to help me get the dog out from under my couch. Until I remember she’s eighty-four and gets winded carrying her grocery bags in from the elevator.
I slip back into my apartment, half hoping Rufus will be running around freaking out because I left.
Or even just bark or run to greet me. But he’s in the same spot.
If anything, the amount of drool pooling under my sofa has grown.
Never in a million years did I think I’d wish to hear his whimpering whine again, but now, as I lay a hand on his trembling leg, I think I’d give anything to see him wandering around, pacing and making that sound.
A loud clap of thunder breaks the silence, and we both jerk in response. I need to get him to the vet, but when I pull out my phone, I don’t know who else to dial. I wish I could call Kyle, ask him what I should do. Tell him I’m trying to take care of his dog like he wanted, but I don’t know how.
I pull my knees to my chest and start to rock because it’s happening again—I’m failing him. I don’t know what to do.
And then I feel a crumpled piece of paper in my leggings pocket. I pull it out and stare at the creased business card for K9 Academy. What else have I got to lose?
The phone rings and rings. I doubt anyone will answer after hours, and I’m right.
It goes straight to voicemail. But I dial again, trying to decide whether it’s worth leaving a message, because I don’t have any other options.
But then the ringing stops, and a deep, too-familiar voice comes on the line.
“Hello? This is Drew.”