CHAPTER 18
Lila
I understand vets have the right to enjoy their weekend, but that doesn’t mean I like it.
All right, maybe I’m being too harsh. They work incredibly hard and deserve time off, sure. But when I’m holding a tiny injured dog in my arms and my professor slash internship supervisor slash family friend slash not-crush spends ten minutes on the phone just trying to get ahold of someone, I kind of start losing my mind a little.
“I found an urgent care center.” Reed finally lets me in on the good news. “Twenty-minute drive, but there’s some traffic.”
Because of course there is.
And of course neither of us drove here.
I point out the obvious. “We don’t have a car.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he reassures me before going back to his phone.
Haniyah walks up to me. “I asked around, but nobody seems to be searching for a missing dog.”
Right after we found this sweet little baby under the bush, she searched around the park for the dog’s possible owners.
“I come here on my walks pretty often,” she adds, looking at the dog with a sad expression. “I’ll keep an eye out for missing dog posters, but I don’t think this cutie belongs to anyone. And if it does, they weren’t good owners. It looks like it hasn’t been fed in a while.”
I figured as much.
Some volunteers also looked around the bush area where we found him or her, but they didn’t see any other animals or paw prints. Maybe their mom got hurt, or maybe…
Maybe they did belong to someone who doesn’t want them anymore.
The puppy in my arms is all alone, and the thought is enough to make my eyes water.
Reed chooses that moment to come back. “I called Warren, and he’ll be here in about ten minutes. He’ll drive us to the vet.”
“You’re coming?” I ask him, my voice small because I’m trying oh-so-hard not to burst into tears right now.
“Of course I am.” He frowns at me, then at the puppy, before he looks away. “Haniyah, will you be okay without us on the ride back?”
She waves him off. “Don’t worry about it. Just make sure this precious baby is all healthy and safe.”
My eyes water even more just thinking about what could’ve happened if the kids hadn’t been snooping around the bushes. I gently stroke the dog’s fluffy head in an attempt to bring them comfort. He or she is such a cute thing; their attentive eyes are looking around, but they’re not really making any noise. They’re not aggressive despite being hurt, which is a small blessing.
The wind has picked up in the past few minutes, enough to make me shiver despite wearing Reed’s jacket. I’m debating my options—whether I should put the dog inside the jacket or take it off and wrap it around them—when he says, “Here.”
I meet Reed’s eyes as he hands me one of the picnic blankets. “This should be enough to keep it warm.”
“Thank you.” I don’t know why my voice comes out as a whisper. But I do suspect why my heart starts hammering inside my rib cage as he gently covers the dog with the blanket until only their little face is visible—but I’d rather not think about it.
“What should we name it?” Melody asks, coming up to me.
“Is it a boy or a girl?” Vera muses.
“Guys,” Reed interjects when Vera tries to move the blanket to take a peek. “Let’s give the dog some space, yeah? We’ll tell you if it’s a boy or a girl when we come back from the vet.”
“Why don’t you just…look?” Melody asks, a hint of a blush in her cheeks.
Reed is patient as he explains, “We don’t want to shift it around too much in case it gets upset or scared. It’s cold, too, so we don’t want to move the blanket. We’ll find out if it’s a boy or a girl eventually, all right?”
“We should call it Bug,” Santiago suggests. “It’s funny.”
But Melody shakes her head. “You can’t give an animal the name of another animal.”
“Says who?”
“I like Rocco for a boy,” Vera suggests.
“Mom told me once that a doctor got it wrong and said she was having twin girls instead of a girl and a boy,” Cameron starts, eyes never leaving the puppy in my arms. “They were going to call me Ginny. That’s a cool name.”
Melody laughs. “Yeah, that’s true. Melody and Ginny. Nuts.”
Reed sends me a playful look, and I don’t fight back my smile, grateful for the distraction.
His phone pings with a text moments later; Warren is waiting for us in the parking lot. After everyone says a very enthusiastic goodbye to the puppy, we make our way to his car.
Warren glances at the bundle in my arms from the driver’s seat as I climb in the back, his voice friendly. “Who do we have there?”
To my utter mortification, Reed buckles me in before getting in the back with me. “Do you want me to hold it? Are your arms tired?”
“Don’t worry.” Why can’t I stop blushing? I turn to Warren. “Thank you so much for driving us to the vet. They’re missing one of their back legs, and the tail is bleeding.”
“The leg is missing?” he asks as he drives out of the parking lot.
“I think he or she may have been born without it. There’s no open wound,” I muse out loud, feeling my chest constrict as I look at that little face.
Please be okay. Please be okay.
Reed shifts his focus to my hands. “You got hurt. I could’ve grabbed it.”
“I’m fine,” I reassure him. “I’ll clean them up when I get home.”
He grunts something under his breath that makes Warren laugh. “Don’t bother trying to fight this one, Lila. He’s as stubborn as a mule.”
My chest feels fuzzy, appreciating the fact that he remembers my name. It’s such a small detail, but a part of me can’t help but feel giddy that one of Reed’s best friends remembers me.
Warren makes the twenty-minute drive to the urgent care center in fifteen, despite the light traffic. “I’ll wait in the car. I don’t think I can park here, so I’ll text you if I have to move.”
Reed nods. “Thanks, man.”
We rush into the vet’s, the warmth of Reed’s hand on my back keeping me grounded. If it weren’t for him, I’d be bursting into tears right now. But he always knows what to do, always finds a solution, and I trust him blindly.
The smell of disinfectant assaults my nostrils as a smiling man opens the door for us.
“Hello there.” He smiles at the puppy’s head popping out of the blanket. “Someone’s looking comfortable in Mommy’s arms, aren’t we?”
Mommy.
I’m going to cry.
“We talked on the phone thirty minutes ago,” Reed cuts directly to the chase. I’m surprised to hear the edge of worry in his voice all of a sudden when he’s only been calm this far. “A stray in the park. It’s missing its back leg and has an injured tail.”
“Yes, I remember. Please, come this way. I’ll take a look.”
The next few minutes pass by in a blur.
“I’ve checked for a microchip, but she doesn’t have any,” the vet—he tells us to call him Paul—confirms. “No fleas, either, which is good. She could’ve belonged to someone, but it doesn’t look like she’s well taken care of.”
She.
“It’s a girl,” I murmur in Reed’s direction, emotion clogging my throat for some reason. Because I couldn’t care less if this poor puppy was a girl or a boy, but actually knowing makes me incredibly happy.
Reed wraps an arm around my shoulders, bringing me closer against his side. My heart stops when I feel the warmth of his lips on the top of my head, gentle and fleeting.
Paul gently strokes the puppy’s head as she lies on the examining table, and Reed pulls away but doesn’t go far. “I suspect she was born without her right back leg since she stands normally. It looks like she has a small cut on her tail too. I understand this is a stray dog?”
“Yes,” Reed confirms. It’s like he can sense I’m too flustered and anxious to speak.
“All right. Well,” Paul starts. The seriousness in the tone of his voice sobers me up at once. “The wound on her tail might be infected, but I’d need to take a more thorough look. Running some blood work to check if she’s healthy would be a good idea, too. I need to know if you will be covering the bills before I can continue.”
“I’m covering them,” Reed says without hesitation.
“Very well. Let me grab a few things, and I’ll be back.”
I walk up to the examining table, lowering myself to my knees until I’m eye to eye with the dog. I gently pet her head with a finger. She’s so small.
“You’re going to be okay,” I whisper as if she can understand me. “You’re a strong girl, aren’t you?”
Don’t cry now.
I turn to Reed to avoid the tears. “We can split the vet bills. I’m not expecting you to pay for everything.”
He doesn’t look at me or at the dog as he repeats, “I’ll take care of it.”
I don’t have time to dwell on why he’s so cold right now—if this is how he channels worry or if it’s something else entirely—because Paul comes back holding a tablet.
“From what I can tell, she seems to be about ten months old,” he informs us, and I melt. She’s a literal baby. “As I said, her wound might be infected, but I’d need to check if it’s severe. If this is a case of gangrenous or necrotic tissues, it may require surgery.”
My stomach gives a downward jolt. “Isn’t she too small for surgery?”
Paul gives me an understanding smile. “Any dog can face complications during surgery, of course, but her age isn’t a risk factor.”
“What are the next steps?” Reed asks, that weird edge to his voice not going anywhere.
“First, you’ll need to fill in this form.” He passes the tablet to Reed. “Once that’s done, I’ll run some quick checks so we can determine if you can take her home. If something doesn’t seem right, she’ll have to stay the night. As for the missing back leg, please know it’s not the end of the world by any means. Animals have an incredible survival instinct. She’d be able to live a happy and comfortable life as a three-legged dog with no problem.”
Logically, I know what Paul is saying makes sense. Pets with three legs can live a happy life; it’s the owners who may think otherwise. But, as I look at the puppy on the examining table, the thought of her being in any kind of pain makes me want to rip this entire place apart.
“I’ll clean her wound while you fill out the patient form,” Paul tells us. “You can go into the waiting room if you’d prefer.”
As if anything or anyone could keep me away from this puppy right now.
Reed notices. “We’ll stay here,” he tells me before he turns his attention back to the tablet. Then, he freezes. “It asks for her name.”
I blink. “Oh.”
“Any ideas?”
I think back on the kids. “What do you think of Ginny?”
His tilted smirk kills me. “I have a feeling Cameron will like it.”
Once Reed fills out the form and Paul finishes up cleaning Ginny’s wound—the poor thing doesn’t even whimper in pain—he proceeds to do the blood work and other procedures I’m too nervous to understand. My only consolation is that Ginny seems calm enough.
Reed’s hand falls to the small of my back, lighting it on fire. He leans down until his lips are grazing my ear, an intimate gesture that feels less forbidden than it is.
“I have nothing for her at home,” he murmurs, his hand still on me. “I’m heading outside for a moment to call Warren, see if he can grab some things from the store. Will you be okay here by yourself?”
I give him a small nod, turning to look at him. He’s so close, and I can’t stop thinking about his lips on the top of my head just moments go. “I’ll be fine. Thanks for taking care of everything.”
Of me.
He gives me an unsure nod in return, looking at me for a beat too long before he exits the room.
Paul hums softly as he keeps examining Ginny, the room bathed in silence until he says in a lighthearted voice, “Your boyfriend is a worrier, huh? Understandable, though. She’s a small puppy.”
My heart cartwheels at that one word and his assumption that we’re together.
He did just press his lips to the top of my head. That tends to look a certain way to strangers.
But I don’t bother correcting him because what could I possibly say? That he’s a professor at my university and my internship supervisor whom I rescue injured puppies with in my free time? Right .
The last thing I want is to answer any of the questions I’m sure he’d have if I told him the truth, so I simply give him a tight smile and say, “She’s very small indeed.”
“Well, worry not, because everything looks fine so far.”
A small weight falls off my shoulders, but I’m still tense when Reed comes back minutes later.
“Warren is heading to the pet shop,” he tells me in a quiet voice, his unreadable eyes on Ginny. “He’ll drop everything off at my house later.”
“That’s nice of him.” I search his gaze to no avail. “How are you holding up?”
He takes a few seconds to answer. And when he does, his words don’t sound convincing. “I’m fine.”
When he offers nothing else, I make a mental note to talk to him later. Whatever is eating at him, I want to help him through it if I can.
“All right. I believe we’re done,” Paul announces some time later. “I can confirm she was born with a missing limb. She’s a little scared right now, but she can move around with ease and without assistance. However, it’s important to note that she’ll place additional strain on her legs over time. As she gets older, this could result in injuries or wear, so it’s important that you take her to her annual checkups. They’ll let you know if she needs some kind of support, like a dog wheelchair. But for now, she’s as healthy as can be. The wound on her tail is also taken care of. There’s a small infection, but it’s nothing to worry about for now.”
“Is there any medication she needs to take? Does she need to come back for rechecks?” I ask him.
“Come to the front, and I’ll print you some care instructions so you won’t forget.”
For the next few minutes, the vet explains the kind of medication Ginny will have to take at home and how often to treat the infection, her next checkup with a regular vet he recommends we take her to, and other care instructions, such as how often she needs to eat or go outside.
After the vet answers some more of my questions, Reed takes care of the bill, buys a pet carrier from the clinic to carry Ginny home, and we head outside. Since Warren isn’t back, Reed calls an Uber.
He’s not speaking, not looking at me, his face hermetic. The pet carrier sits in the middle seat between us, one of his hands lying protectively on top of it so it doesn’t shake too much. The movements of the car make his fingers graze my arm, and I’m torn between feeling anxious about Ginny and feeling anxious about his lips on me. So, this isn’t ideal.
I’m still overanalyzing a million things I have no control over when the car pulls into an unfamiliar driveway.
“Where are we?” I ask Reed.
A two-story detached home looms to my right, with a tiny but well-kept front garden.
“My place.”
There’s a pause in which I can hear my heart hammering inside my chest.
And I couldn’t have, not in a million years, guessed the words that would leave his mouth next.
“I need you to spend the night with me.”