Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
Drew Forbes fills my entire doorframe when I answer his knock.
His hair is wet. As is his jacket. Raindrop dot his glasses, and behind them, his green eyes flash with something unreadable.
Contempt, if I had to guess. For a moment, I consider blocking his way.
After he grabbed me back at the high school, I don’t want him anywhere near me or the dog, let alone in my apartment.
When I racked my brain trying to figure out how to help Rufus, this man was my literal last resort.
The only reason I called him was because he’s asked about the dog every time I’ve seen him.
I figured if he truly cares on any level, he might at least help me get him to the vet.
But now that he’s here, glaring at me from the hall, I’m afraid this was a mistake.
Do I offer him a towel or shut the door in his face?
“Are you going to let me in so I can help him?” he asks.
I frown at his tone and point to my doorbell camera. “There’s time-stamped video of you arriving, already uploaded to the cloud. My brother can access it any time. I also texted my best friend. She knows you’re here too.”
His brows rise. “What . . . ?” But then his mouth presses into a line, and he just nods. I take a breath and step aside.
“He’s under the couch.”
Drew crosses the threshold, spotting Rufus on the floor as he moves into my living room. “How long has he been like this?”
I glance at the clock and wince. “I’m not sure. Maybe a couple hours?”
“You’re not sure?” He makes a sound that resembles a growl, but he’s already kneeling on the floor next to Rufus, setting a backpack down next to him.
“Look, if you can just help me get him to the vet, I’m sure I can—”
“He doesn’t need a vet,” Drew snarls.
My throat dries up. The dog is obviously sick, but as I open my mouth to tell him so, he starts rummaging through his bag, moving into action.
He takes out a Bluetooth speaker first, which he turns on and places next to Rufus, tapping his phone until the air fills with loud, but soothing classical music.
Next, he plugs something into the wall that resembles a diffuser and takes out these gray sock-looking things, slipping them onto each of the dog’s legs.
Rufus hardly moves in response, and my stomach churns as I watch.
Drew produces what looks like a larger matching gray coat.
He considers the dog and couch a moment, then removes his jacket and flattens on his back against the floor, squeezing his big body under my couch frame next to Rufus like a mechanic slipping under a car.
I kneel on the rug beside my dog, trying to follow what he’s doing without getting in the way, but I’m left staring at the man’s massive legs and torso.
His blue Henley rides up as he reaches farther under the couch, revealing a set of very toned abs and a trail of dark hair disappearing into his cargo pants. I force myself to look away.
The whole time he works, he’s stroking Rufus gently, muttering to him in a deep, reassuring voice. And then suddenly he slides back out from under my sofa and we nearly collide as he sits up, straightening his glasses.
“Sorry—I—is he okay?”
“Have you been giving him the Prozac?”
I frown. “Yes, but the vet said—”
“It won’t be effective yet. I know. Just make sure you’re giving it to him. He’s probably going to need it this summer.”
“This summer?” I look to where the dog lies. “What’s the matter with him?”
“It’s the storm,” Drew says, like that’s something every preschooler would know. “Lots of dogs are afraid of thunder, but for Rufus it’s a thousand times worse because it’s triggering his PTSD.”
I swallow before trying to speak. This is a term I’ve only really ever considered in my attempts to understand Kyle and what he did. “The dog has post-traumatic stress disorder?”
Drew just looks at me like he’s hoping I’ll challenge him, but I won’t give him the satisfaction.
I look down at my limp dog half-buried beneath the couch.
He’s now wearing the gray coat thing, which Drew somehow slipped over his head and wrapped tightly around his body.
It has a hood that extends up his neck, covering his ears and leaving only his face exposed.
The whole thing would look silly if he weren’t so unresponsive.
“Should we at least get him out from under there?”
“Absolutely not,” Drew snaps. “We’re not going to take him out of a safe place he chose because it’s what we want.”
“Okay . . .” I say slowly, shoring up my patience because he knows more about this than me. “Then what should we do?”
He gives me this look like he wants to tell me to go away and let him handle it, but has to concede he can’t tell me to leave my own home. “We sit with him. We keep him safe. And we wait it out.”
I shoot a doubtful glance out the windows.
Rain still comes down in sheets, and if anything, the sky is blacker than it was when we got home.
This kind of storm doesn’t happen often in Denver, but when it does, the intensity is always semi-biblical.
If I didn’t have a clock to tell me it’s close to ten p.m., I’d have no way of guessing the time at all.
Drew has gone back to stroking his big hands down Rufus’s body and murmuring to him over the music. If I don’t fully focus my eyes and simply listen to the rumble of his voice, my brain could almost believe he’s Kyle.
Something hot sears through my chest at this thought, and I cough to conceal what was starting to feel like a sob. I look away, trying to block out the big, muscular man on my floor who clearly loathes me, trying to separate him from the man in my head who I know loved me—just not enough.
I rise from where I kneel, moving to Rufus’s other side, determined to do something to help the dog left in my charge.
I hesitate a moment, trying to figure out how to approach.
Rufus’s back is to me, and Drew is on his other side, massaging his paws.
I run my hand down his back a few times, trailing my fingers along the soft, feathery golden fur that isn’t covered by the coat.
I’ve just registered that his whole body isn’t trembling quite the same way it was before Drew got here when another loud clap of thunder breaks through the music and he goes rigid under my touch.
I can just make out Drew’s words over the violins and flute as the thunder subsides. “Hey buddy, it’s okay, you’re safe, you’re going to be okay . . .”
Rufus’s body is still tense under my hands.
I look around for a tool that might help, but I only find the squeaky llama he didn’t respond to before.
I’m willing to bet he still doesn’t want food.
So, I act on impulse and lie down next to him.
I dip my head under the edge of my couch so I’m closer to his ears, and then I press my body up against his, spooning him the way I might if he were Kyle.
“Rufus, I’m right here,” I say in the most soothing voice I can muster. “I know it’s scary, but it’s going to be okay.”
There’s a lull in the music, and though I can still hear the rain coming down, thankfully, there’s no thunder.
But in that quiet moment, I catch the faintest whine.
It’s such a small sound—more like a whimper—and it breaks something loose in my chest. I would never claim to speak dog, but this clearly sounds like a cry for help.
I press my face into the back of Rufus’s neck and stroke my fingers gently over the soft fur of his nose, repeating my words, or versions of them.
Meanwhile, my brain floods with thoughts of Kyle feeling lost and helpless, the exact way his dog feels right now.
I shut my eyes, imagining myself pressed against his body. Saying words I never got to say.
I’m right here; it’s going to be okay.
Thunder crashes again around us, but I just stay there, tears streaming down my face as I whisper and pet the dog.
My dog. The lights in the room are still on, diminishing the flashes from the windows.
And even though I know Drew Forbes is also here because I can hear his low voice still talking, on some level, I register the feeling Rufus must have sought under my couch.
Some semblance of safety—like nothing can get us if we just stay here together.
I don’t know how much time passes under that half-dead couch. Too much. Eventually, I open my eyes and notice the light has completely shifted. It’s brighter. Quieter somehow.
I raise my head, and my neck is stiff, like it’s been weirdly positioned for hours. And when I peer at where my arm is slung over the blond fur next to me, there’s a large, warm hand resting over mine.
I blink. The hand is connected to a muscular arm and body, awkwardly sprawled unconscious on my floor, glasses askew.
My heart thuds once in my chest because, asleep, Drew Forbes looks both more and less like his brother, and noticing this makes weird things happen inside me.
Carefully, I slide my fingers out from under his, pulling my hand toward me over the dog’s ribcage.
In response, Rufus raises his head and looks back at me, eyes shining with a light I didn’t even realize was missing last night, but I’m relieved to see.
He comes to life, twisting ungracefully to extract himself from under my couch skeleton, and I follow suit.
By the time the dog is standing in front of me, wagging his tail like absolutely nothing unusual has happened, Drew is also sitting up on my floor, looking like he wishes he were anywhere else.
The dog does one of those full-body shakes and starts pawing at his head.
Drew refocuses on him, removing the coat and leg warmer things that are clearly annoying him now.
I take the opportunity to slip behind the counter into my kitchen, noting the clock—6:04 a.m., how?
—and picking up the stainless steel food dish to prepare Rufus’s breakfast. As soon as he’s free of his accessories, he runs over, sitting obediently in front of me and licking his lips like he hasn’t eaten in days.
“You seem none the worse for wear,” I mutter, watching him inhale the food I just set down.
I glance over at Drew, now standing in my living room, taking up more space than any man I can remember coming through my door.
And looking entirely rumpled all the way from his hair down to his sneakers.
“Um . . . do you . . . want some orange juice?” I ask, admittedly sounding like I don’t actually want to give it to him.
He looks up, like he just realized I wasn’t offering it to the dog. “No-no, thank you,” he says with those impeccable manners that made my mom sweet on Kyle, then looks quickly away to zip his backpack. He watches Rufus licking his dish across the floor. “I . . . need to go.”
“Right. Yeah.”
We both move for the apartment door—me, remembering my own manners and trying to show him out at the same moment he apparently decides to make a break for it.
We reach the handle together, then overcorrect in the small space, repelling each other like polarized magnets.
It’s an uneasy two seconds before Rufus comes trotting over, spinning in circles between us and nudging his leash hanging on the wall.
“I bet he really needs to go,” I mutter, peeking in the mirror through the bathroom door and smoothing my slept-on-the-floor hair.
When I look back, Drew is running a hand through his too. Not making it neater at all, but somehow more appealingly disheveled. And in that moment, even though we literally spent the last eight hours under a couch with a traumatized animal, my cheeks warm like the night was something else.
“Thanks for your help,” I say lamely, kneeling to clip the leash to Rufus’s collar. I give his head a pat when he looks up with his tongue hanging out. “You can send me a bill . . . or whatever.”
“Sure.” His tone is clipped, and I immediately feel foolish, remembering who I’m talking to. I hate the way his looks, his voice, keep blurring in my head, echoing my heart’s permanent ache. “Look, um . . .”
I glance up, bracing myself for his standard scowl paired with whatever he’s about to say.
Another demand to give him the dog, or some threat about taking proper care of him, no doubt.
But he’s trailed off, gaze fixed on the framed photo on the little table by my door.
He picks up the picture taken a million years ago, in which I’m lifted off my feet, swept up in his brother’s arms.
I raise my eyes to Drew’s, challenging him to do or say anything—try to touch that memory. Except he already has. You’re the reason my brother killed himself.
But when he drags his gaze to mine, his expression seems . . . surprised? Confused?
He hesitates, clears his throat. Rufus comes over and licks his hand, which apparently startles him because the frame slips and falls to the floor with a crack.
“Oh—” I swat him out of my way, lunging to pick it up. The frame itself isn’t damaged, but when I turn the picture over, there’s a thin crack through the glass, running right down the center, visually separating Kyle and me.
I run my fingers along the line like I could wipe it away, put us back together—and then all at once, every feeling and memory I’d managed to hold at bay the last twenty-four hours seems to flood through this hairline crack.
The visit home, the school, the familiar faces.
The scholarship “honoring” Kyle. Having to see his mother and father, who clearly don’t get him any more now than when he was alive.
Tense hours of rain and thunder, ruminating on how I’d failed him and would also fail his dog.
I open the apartment door wide, glaring at Drew through a sheen of tears.
He makes a sound like he wants to say something, but nothing follows. Instead, he sets the gray coat and leg warmers on the little table where the photograph used to sit, runs a hand over Rufus’s ears. And then he’s gone.
I close the door, leaning back against the wood as my vision blurs. Then I sink to the floor and put my arms around Kyle’s dog.