Chapter 3 #2
He takes the small puppy from my arms without even asking, rubbing his nose against his fluff, and I’m about to warn him that he bites when the puppy licks him gently instead.
I inhale sharply and let it go.
“I’m fostering some puppies until the animal shelter finds them homes.”
“Puppies? There are more than this one?”
The puppy keeps licking Milo’s arm as if he’s made of cotton candy or bacon.
“There are eight.” I cross my arms and lean against the doorframe, wishing my house wasn’t filled with incessant barking, my hair wasn’t tangled, and I was wearing something other than my pajamas.
His blue eyes widen. “Eight? That’s a bit ambitious. Need some help?”
“What are you doing here, Milo?” My words seem muffled.
“Look, I didn’t mean to startle you earlier,” he begins before he reaches into his back pocket and pulls out a familiar popsicle. “A slightly melted lemonade popsicle as a . . . peace offering.”
I take it reluctantly, a flood of past Saturdays spent riding around in his truck while the sweet lemon flavor melted on my tongue filling my mind.
I swallow. “I’m not mad at you.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he says.
“You implied it.”
He shakes his head. “I just meant, can we start over? I’d like to catch up.”
“I’m not sure there’s much to catch up on. Seems I’m just the same girl you left in Dusty Hollow ten years ago.” I taste the bitterness as the words leave my mouth, like strong coffee brewed with an extra scoop.
“I didn’t mean—” He closes his lips, nods, and then his eyes trace the trail of blood running down my arm from the puppy with fangs. His hand moves toward it before I can retract.
He wipes at my blood, his touch electric and gentle, before he looks down at the puppy in his arms. “Did you do that? You little vampire.”
The barking inside grows louder. I reach for the puppy, taking him out of Milo’s arms.
“Listen, Milo. I’m tired. I don’t have the energy for”—I wave the popsicle between us—“whatever this is. And I think it’s best if you and I aren't seen together. I’m sure Patty”—I use my chin to point toward the house across the street—“has already called someone about you being here.”
“Patty McGee?” He turns to look at Patty’s house.
“The one and only.”
Patty McGee is a small woman with a pointy nose and a tongue that twists truths into tales that make the town talk.
She tricks you with her soft smile and knitting addiction, bringing her needles and yarn to church to make baby blankets while Pastor Jeff preaches.
But we all know if Patty seeks you out, she’s looking for more than a pleasant conversation.
“I’m surprised she’s still kicking,” he mutters. “Oh, yep. I think I just saw her curtains move.” He waves at her window with enthusiasm.
I shake my head. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have eight puppies to take care of, and I need a bandage,” I say, backing into my house and using my foot to close the door, but Milo shoves his foot into the gap before I can close it.
“Sadie.” He says my name tenderly, causing a sudden ache within me.
He opens the door all the way, standing fully in the doorframe. If it were pouring rain right now, he’d look desperate in his black T-shirt and jeans, hair soaked and dripping like tears down his face. But we’re in a drought, and I blink away the rendering of Milo I sketched in my mind.
Instead he sighs, and his arm muscles tense as they press into the doorframe before he adds, “I’m sorry. I don’t have any right to come back here and assume you want to talk to me.”
I take a deep breath, looking everywhere except at Milo before I finally say, “You can’t just leave and come back thinking everything can be the same. Not after . . .”
The words are quiet, but the weight of them plummets between us.
“That’s fair, and that's why I want to talk.”
I hear a shrill yip from inside and then little claws running across the floor as another puppy scampers toward the open front door.
Milo bends down and catches him effortlessly. “I can help, Sadie. Let me help you.”
Those are the words I wanted years ago.
“If you want to help, find families for these eight puppies,” I say, my tone low and my head beginning to pound from the background noise of barking and whines.
He nods as he hands the other puppy over to me.
There’s a pause between us that lingers, Milo’s eyes on me while mine are on the puppies, who are now both gnawing on my arms.
“Okay,” he replies quietly. “I’ll see you around.”
He turns and closes the door behind him, the latch clicking quietly.
I put the second puppy back down in the pen but keep hold of the one that now smells like the melted lemonade popsicle he ate, plastic and all, while I was distracted with my feelings.
I walk to the window to watch Milo drive away in his old green truck. The one I learned to drive stick shift in. The one that picked me up for school every morning. The one that I had my first kiss in. Our first kiss in.
I can’t believe he still has it. He could definitely have afforded to buy a new car when he played pro football.
A sharp bite to my arm brings me back to the house I’m standing in, the little two-bedroom ranch-style home that needs new plumbing and new flooring.
“I’m going to call you Jaws,” I say to the puppy. “You’re part shark, part cotton ball.”
He yips in response.
“We’ve really got to get you and your siblings a home that isn’t mine,” I say as I pick up my phone off the counter, opening the camera before taking a selfie with me smiling wide and Jaws looking cute, because what puppy doesn’t look adorable?
Then I post it on Facebook, tagging Dusty Hollow Animal Shelter, and politely beg for someone to adopt them.