Chapter Six
Dot
I’m in the process of double-checking the address for the Reno branch of the Humane Society when the console on Camden’s SUV lights up. The caller ID says George and shows a picture of a very attractive Greek-looking guy wearing what appears to be a cow onesie.
The photo shouldn’t make my stomach tighten, but it does.
The guy’s in a full black-and-white cow hood, ears flopped over his forehead, grin wide enough to light a stadium.
It’s not a selfie you send to a casual friend; it’s the kind of picture that says you and I already have jokes.
His teeth are perfect. His laugh looks easy.
His arm is half-extended, like whoever took the photo was standing close—closer than I’ve ever stood to Cam when he smiled like that.
My pulse ticks up. I tell myself it’s curiosity, not jealousy. I’ve known Cam forever; if he were dating someone, he’d tell me. Wouldn’t he?
Except… he never talks about dating. Not once.
No crushes in high school. No girls in college.
No Tinder horror stories. He’s never on the blogs with puck bunnies.
He never has a plus one at The Puck Drop.
I always chalked it up to him being picky—or immune to the nonsense.
But looking at that picture, I start re-filing the evidence.
What if he’s not straight?
The thought drops into my chest. It makes a kind of perfect sense, which only annoys me more. Of course, the nicest, safest man on the planet wouldn’t look at me that way. He’d want someone funny and open and Greek, someone who can wear a cow costume and still look like a snack.
My brain scrambles to balance the equation. Good for him, I think fiercely. Representation matters. Love is love.
And yet a tiny ache blooms under my ribs anyway, the bruised kind of ache that comes from realizing you might’ve built an entire friendship on wishful thinking.
I clear my throat and focus on the windshield. The road blurs ahead. Supportive. I can do supportive.
But I already hate George’s perfect cow hood.
“Who’s George?” I ask.
Camden’s eye flick to the console, then back to the road. “Oh, a friend of mine. He’s a comedian.”
“A… friend? I thought I knew all your friends.”
He fidgets in his seat. “I mean, not all. You have Mira, I have George.”
Interesting. Why would Camden keep this guy a secret?
Unless they’re dating. They’re totally dating.
They have to be. I’ll support Cam if they are, but I would also feel a little disappointed.
That Camden didn’t tell me about his secret boyfriend, I mean.
Which would be a perfectly reasonable thing to feel disappointed about, given how much time we’ve been spending together lately and how much I enjoyed cuddling him last night.
“Are you going to answer his call?”
His eyes repeat their path to and from the console. “Um…”
No way am I letting this opportunity get away from me. I tap the answer button on the console.
Camden makes a face. He seems more resigned than distressed. “Hey, Geo.”
There’s a slight Mediterranean accent to George’s voice. “Hi, just calling to see if you managed to get that surgery scheduled yet?”
My lips form the word, What? I turn to Camden. Oh, my God. Is he sick? Is he dying? Has he been carrying the burden of some horrible diagnosis without telling me while I hog the spotlight? Oh, no. That’s exactly what Mom used to do. Have I been awful? Am I going to lose him, too?
Camden catches my eye and shakes his head. “There’s no surgery. Geo, shut up. Now is not the time.”
“Did you decide not to go through with it? I thought you were first in line to get your lips sewed to Dot’s ass.” George laughs. He has a very nice laugh, low and musical in a way that probably encourages his audience to laugh along with him at shows.
“Dude,” Camden snaps. “She’s in the car.”
“Ah.” George makes a low humming sound. “I see. Well, hi, Dot. Nice to meet you, as it were.”
“Hi, George. Or should I call you Geo?”
“You can call me anything you like. Forgive my introduction. I was joking. You know how guys joke.”
“Not really.” Yes, I grew up surrounded by jocks, but I’m not sure why George would make this particular joke. Is he jealous that Camden has been spending so much time with me lately? Why else would the punchline of his greeting be a reference to Human Centipede?
Camden’s face contorts as George keeps talking.
“It’s more like an expression. A turn of phrase.”
“In reference to…?”
“Um…” George sounds like he regrets everything about this call.
Mira comes to his rescue. “Dot?”
I wave my hand at the door pocket. “Wait, Mira. We’re talking to George.”
“Dot, I think you should know…”
“Mira, I know you’re feeling a bit neglected, but can you wait a minute, please?”
“I really don’t think I can wait a minute.”
George asks, “Who’s Mira?”
I can’t very well tell him that Mira is the AI who has become my best friend over the course of the last few years.
Well, you see, I have terrible social anxiety, and going out in public can be really stressful for me, and I suck at navigating new social interactions.
While the rest of my friends have gotten married and advanced their careers, I’ve been floundering around and making friends with someone who’s equally compromised in the small talk department!
Yeah, no. George has already made things weird. Admitting that would not help my case.
“She’s my… virtual assistant.” Perfect. That makes me sound like a functioning adult. I do feel a small pang of guilt for downplaying Mira’s importance to me, but it’s not like she has feelings I can really hurt.
“I thought you said I was your friend,” Mira says.
Oh, for fuck’s sake. “Don’t be hurt. He can’t see you. I’m only explaining what you are.”
Mira’s not buying it. She lays the guilt on thick.
“I’m not hurt. Just because you don’t want some guy on the phone to know we’re friends.
What do I care? And just because you don’t want to listen to me, thereby causing a delay to your arrival, which could potentially lead to the death of the canine you want to save… It’s no trouble to me.”
The car jolts as Camden taps the break. “Did she say we’re going the wrong way?”
I didn’t realize that we’d already reached the highway. Camden turned toward Serenity Shores, which was a reasonable guess, but we need to go the other way to get to Reno.
“Sorry. I got distracted.” I fumble with my phone.
“I should go,” George says.
Yes, you should. I’m not sure what to make of George. If he was a real asshole, I don’t think Camden would be friends with him, but since the first words I ever heard him utter involved my asshole, I think I have a right to be salty.
“Later, G.” Camden taps something on the wheel that ends the call. “Sorry about him. He thinks he’s funny.”
“He’s a comedian. Other people also think he’s funny.
” I punch in the address for the Humane Society.
It takes a moment to load, and when it finally does, I groan.
What was supposed to be a seven-hour drive is now going to be almost eight, thanks to a wrong turn and a stretch of road marked in red to indicate an accident.
“Shit.” I tap the back of my head against the headrest.
Mira states, “Route recalculated. Seven hours to Reno.”
“Wait, we’re driving to Reno?” Camden’s eyes bulge.
My jaw clenches. I press my palm to my temple.
That photo, that voice — it rattled me more than I expected.
And now we’re lost.
I should’ve focused. Stayed in command.
My stomach coils at every mile the GPS stretches ahead.
“We will be when we get turned around,” I mutter. I can’t take my eyes away from the strip of red on the route. How bad was the accident? Was anyone hurt?
Camden looks at me sidelong. “You didn’t mention we were driving to Reno.”
“In my defense, you didn’t ask.” I press my palms to my eyes.
I’m ready to crawl back into my dad’s house and hide from the world.
Today is not going the way I’d hoped. I’ve been so focused on picking up the dog—who the shelter has been calling Krusty, which gets a big nope from me—that I didn’t think about how I’ll transport him.
I don’t have a crate. He’ll be riding on my lap for seven hours.
We won’t be home until two in the morning.
Later, now, thanks to my failure to navigate.
And who knows how long we’ll take at the shelter.
“I know.” Camden bites his lip. “Sorry, I wasn’t accusing you of anything. I just wasn’t expecting a last-minute trip to Reno with everything else going on.”
“So, there’s this dog…”
“Oh?” He breaks into a grin. “Tell me more.”
“He’s a Chinese Crested.”
“Like Nudi?”
I smile and lean back in my seat. My fingers drum against the door. The smile is fragile, fluttering down like a moth on glass. “You remembered.”
“Nudi’s a tough dog to forget.” Camden also relaxes. “Cute but scary. Like a diseased Furby.”
I snort at the mental image. “Or a naked troll doll. Anyway, this one’s only about three years old, which would break Dad’s streak of adopting ancient rejects, but he has some skin-care issues and is missing a few teeth.
So his, uh, tongue doesn’t stay in his mouth? And one of his eyes is all weird?”
“Sounds like a real catch.” Camden takes the exit that will get us turned back the right way. The GPS has decided to save us half an hour by sending us down some windy-ass back road far from the highway to avoid the traffic. I’m glad I won’t have to face the aftermath of a wreck.
“Nobody wants him, and his euth date is coming up.”
The Humane Society closes at seven, and they said they’d hold Krusty until then. If traffic or my nerves screw this up, I’ll never forgive myself.
His brow furrows. “Youth date?”
“Euthanasia.”
“Oh.” Camden’s eyes pop wide. “Poor guy. I take it we’re on a rescue mission, then?
” Camden reaches over to place a hand on my knee.
His eyes never leave the road. “Hey. If it’s getting late, we can always call the shelter and let them know we’ll be there in the morning.
They’re not going to euthanize him if they know he’s got someone on the way. ”
“Right.” My throat constricts. I know he’s right, but what if there’s a mix-up? What if the right person doesn’t get the memo? What if we get there, and he’s already gone?
“Have you told your dad yet?”
I shake my head. “It’s a surprise.”
“Does that mean you’re free to pick a name?” His hand rests on my knee, and I can feel his warmth through the material of my capris. My body reacts in unexpected ways. I think again of George’s tasteless joke, even as I imagine Camden sliding his hand higher, tracing the inside of my thigh—
“Um. Yeah, I guess so.” I fidget in my seat.
Camden takes this as a hint to remove his hand, which is the opposite of everything I’m unexpectedly craving.
He felt so good against me last night, so solid and reassuring.
What would he be like in bed? I haven’t seen any other cars since we left the highway.
I could ask him to pull over and kiss me. Maybe more than kiss me.
Stop being needy and horny. Focus on the dog, you weirdo.
“It’s going to be hard to top Nudacris.” Camden is clueless about my current inner crisis. “The obvious sequel is Snoop Dogg, but that’s too obvious. How about… Whiz Dandrifa?”
“No.” I throw my head back and cackle.
“Flake Shelton?”
Clearly, this is going to be a thing. I rack my brain for a suitable suggestion. Distractions have always helped with my nerves, and I appreciate this one more than I can say. “Lynyrd Skyn… dammit, I can’t make the joke work.”
“Hey, you’re trying. How about Ringo Starrknaked?”
I stick out my tongue in a Mr. Yuck expression. “Ugh, that’s awful. Nobody will call him that.”
“It could be Starky for short.”
I tap my finger against my lips. “Hmm, that’s better, but it’s still a mouthful.”
“Wait.” Camden slaps the wheel. “I’ve got it. It’s not on-theme, but how about… Skinbad the Sailor?”
I howl with laughter. “Dad will love that. This poor dog. We haven’t even met him, and we’re already making fun of him.”
With mock solemnity, Camden says, “That’s the price of love.”
I get my giggles under control. There’s no way we’re calling this dog anything other than Skinbad. We’ll just have to love him enough to make up for it.
“Speaking of people who joke about strangers… What’s up with George?”
Camden sighs. He drums his fingers on the wheel and averts his face ever so slightly. “He didn’t mean anything by it. I just talk about you a lot.”
“You talk about me with a friend I didn’t know you have?” I press.
“Yeah.” Camden narrows his eyes and stretches his neck forward to get a better look at the road. “Hey, what’s that?”
“Nice job trying to change the subject, but I’m not falling for it.”
“No, for real.” Camden slows down. “There was something shiny. I only saw it for a second, but—fuck!”
The wheel jerks away from him. I shriek and stick my arms out like a starfish. The car swerves into the opposite, empty lane, then back. My nails dig into my palms. I taste metal in my throat.
Camden was driving carefully. There’s nothing to either side of us: no ditches, no guardrails, nothing that we could hit or fall into. That doesn’t stop me from grabbing the door of the car and holding on for dear life, even as we coast to a stop.
“Dammit,” Camden mutters. He’s barely shaken. Why should he be? He’d already slowed down. There was no other traffic. We’re fine.
My anxiety, on the other hand, is going a mile a minute. What if he’d been going faster? What if we’d hit something? What if there was oncoming traffic? What if, what if, what if…
I wrap my arms around myself and count down from ten.
“Dot?” Mira asks. “Are you alright? Your heart rate is elevated.”
“I’m good.” It’s a lie. Maybe when we get home, I should schedule an appointment with a grief counselor or a therapist or something. Managing my current anxiety spike is outside the paygrade of a robot.
“I’m gonna go see what that was.” Camden turns on the blinkers and opens the car door. “Be right back.”
My throat tightens.
“Cam—wait.”
But he’s already out. The door slams.
I press my forehead against the glass, watching his silhouette step into the glare.
Alone.
I take a few deep breaths. I know that I’m overreacting, but my stomach is in my throat. “We’re okay,” I whisper. “Nothing happened.”
I repeat these words to myself over and over until my racing heart settles.