19. Nate
Nate
The emotions march across her face, one fading into the next, and it takes everything I have to keep myself from pulling her into my arms right this second.
Worry, surprise, but then there’s a flash of interest.
That’s progress.
It may not be a big step forward, but as long as we’re not moving backward, I’ll take anything I can get.
“Nate,” she says again, like she can’t find the right words.
“Can I come in?” I ask.
At her nod, I take a step forward into the house.
Rory moves backward in sync with my movement, maintaining the distance between us.
I take it as a positive sign that she doesn’t increase the space.
I gesture toward the stairs. “Why don’t you go get ready. I’ll hang out with your mom.”
Rory looks over at Cathy, like she’s looking for approval, which she gets, with a small smile and a nod from her mother.
Rory turns back to me. “Okay. But just…”
As she hesitates, I mentally cross my fingers.
Please let today’s date go okay.
I know there’s a lot going on in Rory’s mind. For someone who tried so hard to go with the flow, as she put it back when she came up to High Lonesome for the reunion, her normal instinct is to worry and to overthink everything.
I’ve come to the conclusion that my job is to make sure she doesn’t have to worry about anything.
She can overthink all she wants, but at the end of the day, I’ll be there for her, ready to make sure her life is as easy as possible. Especially now, when things with her mom get harder every single day.
“Just keep an eye on my mom,” Rory finishes with a sigh.
She heads for the staircase and disappears up the stairs toward her bedroom, Spam following close at her heels.
“I’m fine,” Cathy says as soon as Rory is out of earshot. “Really.”
I give her a smile. “I know. But you know how Rory overthinks.”
Cathy lets out a short laugh as she shifts on the couch, but I don’t miss how she winces at the movement.
She’s putting on a brave face for her kids, but she’s in pain.
It’s how Dad was, when he was getting near the end, and the cancer had taken over almost every part of his body.
“Do you need anything? Meds, a drink?” I offer.
She shakes her head. “Nope. I have reality TV. Who could ask for more?”
The opening credits of The Bachelor roll across the TV, the host promising “the most dramatic season of The Bachelor ever.”
I chuckle at her selection. “Can’t go wrong there, right? I brought some stuff over. I hope you don’t mind. If you’re okay with the TV, I can go grab it now, or I can sit with you a while.”
She waves me off. “I’m good.” She gestures toward the TV. “Unless you need some drama in your life. The first night episodes are the best, all those girls with too much makeup crying about how some guy they spoke to for five minutes was their soulmate.”
“Ah, young love.” I laugh along with Cathy, but secretly, I think reality dating shows get too much hate for the fast-track relationships.
Most of the reality TV franchises have issues, obviously. But the idea that a couple can be in love so quickly after meeting? Not one of them, if you ask me.
When you meet the right person, you know, whether that’s in High School math class or amid cameras and production equipment.
I pull myself away from the on-screen montage of women explaining why that season’s Bachelor is going to fall madly in love with each of them and head out to the driveway to grab a few things.
I pop the trunk of the SUV and grab the two large cooler bags. Each of them holds a couple of casseroles, courtesy of Marge.
She dropped them off at my house, and while I’m fairly certain she didn’t make them herself, Marge is a woman of mystery, so you never know.
Every time you think you understand her, there’s some other facet of her life or personality that appears and makes you rethink everything.
So it’s possible that she made them herself, but if I have to guess, my money is on Donna, who rents a room from Marge.
Donna’s a fifty-something nurse who moved up here to work part time at the local hospital and to “find herself,” or at least that’s what Marge told me.
She wouldn’t be the first who came up here to find themselves and found a home and family instead.
At any rate, the casseroles look delicious, and each is labelled with a Post-it note with details and directions. Whoever was responsible for these is organized, at least.
I heft the bags in one arm and close the trunk before carrying them into the kitchen. Once they’re tucked away in the freezer, I survey the room, needing to do something with my hands while I wait.
The kitchen is tidy as always, but a few crumbs next to the toaster catch my eye, and before I’ve really thought it through, I have a rag in one hand and all-purpose cleaning spray in the other.
It feels good to clean, especially when it’s not my own place.
My mind wanders as I wipe down the kitchen and move on to the bathroom. The bickering of the women of The Bachelor filters through the house, providing a backdrop as I clean.
When Rory comes down the stairs, I’ve just finished starting the washing machine with a load of towels that I collected from the kitchen and bathroom.
“What are you doing?” Her forehead creases adorably.
I shrug. “Killing time.”
I walk past her into the kitchen to put the cleaning spray back in the cabinet under the sink and wash my hands before rejoining her in the living room.
Rory sniffs the air. “It smells so…clean in here.”
I do my best to focus on her words, but it’s hard to ignore the way her ripped jeans conform to her legs.
She’s facing me, so I don’t have a view of her ass, but my mind conjures up a vision of her perfect curves in those jeans.
“Like I said, I was killing time.” I don’t bother to hide my perusal of her body. “Can you get those clothes dirty?”
It’s not like I need to hide my attraction to her. She knows I want every inch of her, and that her body is just the icing on the cake as far as I’m concerned.
If she wants to believe I’m just checking out her outfit to make sure it’s appropriate for our activity, that’s fine too.
“Yeah. What are we doing?”
I lift the corner of my mouth in a small smile. “It’s a surprise. But I think we’ll have fun.”
Spam comes speeding down the stairs, right on cue.
Sometimes I wonder if the little guy is smarter than he lets on.
“We’re going to head out, Cathy,” I say to Rory’s mom as I take the leash from my back pocket and clip it to Spam’s collar.
“There are some casseroles in the freezer. Just tell Jim to read the notes on each of them for what they are and how to cook them. We’ll take care of the laundry when we get back. ”
I head for the door. Spam trots obediently along behind me.
I knew he was capable of behaving.
Rory doesn’t move. She stares at me and Spam, her mind still working overtime.
“You coming?”
“God damn it.” She follows us to the door. “You’re playing dirty.”
“Bye, Cathy. Call if you need anything.” I wave as I pull the door closed behind us and turn back to Rory as we head down the walkway. “Why do you think I’m playing dirty?”
The way her brows pull together and eyes narrow make it clear that she’s skeptical, but the twitching at the corners of her lips gives me hope that she’s not really that upset.
“You bring over casseroles. Clean my parents’ house, of all things. And now you want to bring Spam on our date? That feels like cheating somehow.”
I open the passenger door of the Explorer and wait for her to climb in. Once she buckles her seat belt, I lift Spam into her lap and lean in close.
“I said I’d do anything to get you back, Rory. Cleaning and laundry are barely the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what I’d do for you.”
I step back and close the door, but not before I hear her sharp intake of breath, confirming that just maybe I’m on the right path today.
Spam sits patiently on his haunches, and for a minute, I think this may actually work out.
It’s warm enough that the class is outside—warm being relative in the high Rockies. It’s thirty-five degrees out, but that’s plenty nice for us.
“Do you think we have to let him off the leash?” Rory whispers to me.
Before I can answer, a heavyset woman steps into the fenced-off area and strides to stand in front of the row of dogs and their owners. From her stance, it’s clear she’s in charge here and is accustomed to her students listening to her every word.
Good luck, Spam.
“Good afternoon. I’m Dolores, and welcome to Obedience 101.” Her gaze travels across the assembled people and dogs. “Today we’re going to work on heeling, sitting, staying, and coming when called.”
“At least he’s doing one of those,” Rory mutters.
Spam’s attention is firmly fixed on Dolores. Maybe he just needs some structure in his life.
See, I’ve been saying that any dog can be trained. We just haven’t had time to train Spam.
He has potential.
Perhaps unlike me and Rory, who are having trouble keeping straight faces.
“Attention on me, please.” Dolores narrows her gaze on Rory, who presses her lips into a line, trying not to laugh. “As I was saying, we will start with sit. Please have your dogs stand and walk with them on the leash a few feet, then have them sit.”
Rory walks Spam a few feet then points to the ground with the hand signal Dolores demonstrated.
Spam hops.
“Sit,” she says again.
Spam takes this as an instruction to yelp—loudly—and to keep jumping.
To be fair, she’s holding a treat in her hand, but it’s for when he sits. He’s not supposed to retrieve it from her hand himself.
I glance around. The other three dogs are munching on their treats, still sitting as instructed.
Dolores looks at Rory. “Try walking him a little farther, then turn around and try again, where he can see the other dogs.”
Rory follows her instructions.
Spam does not.
This goes on for about five minutes, while the other dogs seem to figure out the command, some of them sitting just on the hand signal alone.
Spam is not among them.
Rory finally gives up and offers Spam the treat when stops jumping for three seconds.
It does not seem to have the intended effect of reinforcing good behavior. If anything, he appears to be interpreting the treat as a reward for the hopping, which he resumes with a renewed vigor.
I hold back a laugh. Rory’s trying her best, and I don’t want Spam to think I condone his behavior.
But it is kind of funny.
“Do you want to try?” Rory asks me, eyebrows raised and a challenge in her voice.
I take Spam’s leash from her. I don’t want to show her up, and anyway, this is supposed to be fun.
But look out, Spam. Daddy’s here now, and he don’t take no crap.
I walk a few feet and then stop, pointing to the ground authoritatively.
You just have to show these dogs who’s boss, that’s all. They need a master, someone they can trust.
“Sit,” I say firmly.
Spam cocks his head at me.
“Sit,” I say again.
Spam squats, and I think he’s about to listen.
That’s right, Spam. Daddy makes the rules here.
The triumphant smile is already spreading across my face when I realize he stopped about halfway to the ground.
He’s not sitting. He’s squatting.
And now he’s dropping a number two on the grass right next to me.
Okay. This is fine. The dog just had to go. That’s all. We can recover from this.
Rory walks over to me, holding out a plastic baggie as she giggles. “Maybe he thought you said shit instead of sit.”
Spam wags his tail as I clean up his droppings and hand the baggie to Rory, who carries it to a nearby trashcan.
I look down at Spam, ready to give it another go. I take a few steps then stop and give him the hand signal, making sure to enunciate the word, just in case. “Sit.”
Spam sits.
I puff up my chest. See, I told you it could be done.
Spam flops to his back.
Wait. No.
“Sit,” I hiss. “Sit and stay sitting.”
Spam rolls to his side, tongue lolling out.
Rory is now laughing so hard tears are streaming down her face.
The rest of the dogs—along with their owners—are looking at me and Spam as though they’ve never seen a dumber human-canine pair.
Dolores is hyperventilating. She looks like she’s about to lose it, if the slightly purple color of her face is anything to go by.
“Okay, then,” she says, a slight edge to her voice. “Let’s move on.”
I suspect she’s beginning to think that Spam is a lost cause. And while I can understand how one might come to that conclusion, I’m not ready to give up.
If anything, it makes me all the more determined to show her we can do this.
I lead Spam back to the edge of the fenced-in area, hoping the next thing Dolores is going to teach us is something like trying to kill your human or yelping at the highest possible pitch.
Let us prove ourselves, Dolores. Play to our strengths.
“We’re going to work on stay and come,” she says. “Take your dogs’ leashes off and tell them to stay while you walk a few feet away. Then tell them to come to you. When they do, offer a treat.”
Dolores conveniently ignores the fact that Spam still hasn’t figured out sitting on command.
“You want to try?” I ask Rory, hoping she’ll say yes.
This class hasn’t exactly been good for my ego so far.
She’s still laughing. “No. I’m having too much fun watching this.”
At least she’s having fun.
I take a deep breath and look down at Spam. “Okay, Spam. Don’t make us look bad.” I reach for the clip of his leash. “Stay.”
Spam stays.
For approximately two seconds.
As soon as I take a step away from him, he takes off.
And all hell breaks loose.