Chapter 6 #2
Ollie, for his part, is resting quietly on his bed in the corner of the living room, watching all of this unfold with an expression that very clearly says What the fuck is happening to my home?
Same, Ollie. But we’re going to put up with this little terrorist of a dog because he’s apparently a package deal when it comes to Rory. And I’ve been hung up on this girl for years, so I’m not going to let a miniature canine get in the way of getting some closure, at the very least.
We make it up the stairs without tripping over the dog—I give thanks for another miracle—and I push open the door to the second bedroom with my hip.
“This is the guest room now. I washed the sheets,” I add.
Rory looks around as she drops her two bags on the bed. “This was your room growing up, wasn’t it? You must have painted. It looks amazing.”
I set the laundry basket on the floor by the dresser. “Yeah. This was the only room I felt comfortable changing much, at least so far. I took my parents’ old bedroom, which is a little bigger. It has its own bathroom, so you get the one right there to yourself.”
As I gesture to the next door down the hall, Spam, who hasn’t stayed in one place for more than five seconds since I opened the front door, streaks past me into the guest room and jumps onto the gray- and white-striped duvet that covers the queen-sized bed and settles himself next to Rory’s duffel.
Rory beams at the little monster.
I, on the other hand, am about to shit my pants. I love dogs. Always have. And making sure my dogs are well trained comes with the territory. It’s one of the things that makes me good at my job as a K9 officer.
The idea of having a dog in my home who’s poorly trained, if at all, is a hard sell. Plus, I try to keep my house relatively clean and organized. The white furniture and pale-gray carpeting in this room would have been a terrible choice otherwise.
I suspect Spam and I may have some clashes in our future.
“No dogs on the furniture,” I say, glaring at the mutt, who now seems to be making a nest in the center of the fresh sheets.
“Oh, he doesn’t know that rule,” Rory says, petting his head.
I scoop Spam off the freshly made bed and deposit him on the floor, hoping he doesn’t poop on the new carpet. “We’ll work on that.”
Spam disappears through the door. Maybe Ollie should eat him after all.
“Can I see the rest of the house?” Rory asks.
I lead her into my bedroom, wishing I’d closed the door earlier, because Spam is now on my bed. I take a deep breath so I don’t lose my shit and, potentially, lose any chance I may have to reconnect with Rory.
“This is my room now. I don’t know if you ever even got to come in here while my parents were living here.”
Rory picks up Spam—thank God—and spins in a slow circle, checking everything out. “It looks really nice, Nate. I like it.”
Is she remembering the last time we were in a bedroom together? Because I can’t keep the memory from playing in full color in my mind.
It was her childhood bedroom. Her parents were out doing something—the details weren’t important to us at the time, just that they were gone and wouldn’t be back for a long time. Her brother, Dylan, ten years older than us, had long since moved out.
Every detail of that day is burned into my memory.
The way the snow was melting along the roads.
The debate over whether to have a fire in the fireplace—would it be romantic, or would we end up burning her parents’ house down?
The feel of her body pressed against mine as we made out on the fake-leather couch.
The vulnerability in her eyes when she told me she was ready to go all the way. The way she took my hand and led me to her room.
It was the first time for both of us. I remember it being absolutely perfect. I’m sure it wasn’t, and I know I’ve gotten a hell of a lot better at it since then. I can last more than five minutes now, for example.
“Nate?” Rory asks, and I realize I’ve been reminiscing instead of having a conversation like a normal human.
Pull it together, Patterson.
Just because Rory is back in High Lonesome doesn’t mean she’s back for me. After all, she’s the one who broke things off.
“Yeah. Thanks. It took a while for it to feel like mine, but it’s been a while since I moved in. It’s feeling more like my place now.” Focus on the present, Nate.
Rory nods slowly. “I used to think about how I’d change my parents’ house if it were up to me. Mostly I think back when I lived with them and I wanted a horse theme, like life-size paintings of horses and horse blankets and horse pillows.” She grins. “They drew the line at a few posters.”
I laugh. Rory was obsessed with horses when we were growing up. I remember her spending hours at the barn with her best friend.
“You still ride?” I ask.
A frown crosses her face. “I haven’t since high school, actually.
It’s just so expensive, and I don’t have time like I did as a kid.
” She laughs ruefully. “Remember how we all wanted to grow up? We were all so convinced that life would be better as adults, that it would be awesome to have no rules and stay up as late as we wanted and eat ice cream for breakfast.”
I laugh. “Technically, you can eat ice cream for breakfast if you want.”
“True. Now I pretty much just drink coffee instead of eating breakfast. So no, I don’t ride, but I’d love to get back to it at some point. Maybe once things are better with money and time and I get a new job.”
“A new job?” This is news to me.
I try to keep up with what she’s doing on Instagram, but I hadn’t seen anything about her quitting her job. But then, we all have different lives that we portray on social media, and sometimes the reality differs greatly from what we want the world to see.
She looks down at Spam, who’s fighting to get out of her arms. “Yeah. It’s recent. They had budget cuts at the shelter.”
“I’m sorry, Rory. That sucks.”
She shrugs, setting Spam down. He takes off again. What does she feed this dog? Pure cocaine?
“It’s okay, I guess. It wasn’t exactly the dream job. I always saw myself doing something…well, with horses, I guess, but any animal would be fine. But I want to actually work with the animals, not just clean up after them like I was doing at the shelter. You know?”
I’ve heard the same sort of complaint from a lot of our friends.
Maybe this is a universal twenty-something experience.
We go out into the world, all bright-eyed and optimistic, and the jobs we’re presented with rarely match up with the idealized versions of what we thought we’d be doing when we chose our career paths.
“Makes sense,” I say. “Maybe this will give you a chance to find the dream job.”
Rory smiles, her entire face lighting up with emotion, and my heart swells. I’ve missed her smiles.
“I hope so.”
I can’t wait to hear more about her life, to find out everything I’ve missed over the last ten years. To find out who she is now and all the ways she’s different than she was when I knew her. “Come on. Let’s go downstairs, and I’ll show you the kitchen. You want something to eat?”
Rory follows me out of the bedroom. “Sure. I can always go for a snack.”
The tension in my shoulders has eased a bit since she arrived. I’m not sure what I was expecting, honestly, but being around Rory is easy.
As I near the base of the stairs, Ollie is sitting straight up, his ears at attention. He’s looking at something behind me. I turn back just in time to see Spam hurtling down the stairs, crisscrossing right into Rory’s path.
I open my mouth to warn Rory as Spam jumps in front of her, but it happens too quickly. Rory’s foot catches as she tries to avoid kicking him, and she throws out her hand to grab something, but she misses the railing and falls toward me with an adorable squeak.
I move just in time to catch her. Her body crashes against my chest, hard enough that it would have hurt for sure if she’d hit the ground.
I tighten my arms around her, steadying her as I pull her closer.
She’s shaking.
My heart seizes, and I hold on for a few seconds longer.
Visions of her falling to the floor flash through my head, making my stomach bottom out, and I let out a long breath.
Jesus, she could have gotten really hurt.
Spam scampers off, unaware of the disaster he almost caused.
Rory looks up at me, and I realize I’m still holding her tightly, but she makes no move to stand up or to put distance between us. Her pulse hammers in her throat, the rapid tempo mirroring my own racing heartbeat. Her lips part slightly as she pulls in a trembling breath.
I should set her on her feet, step a respectable distance away.
But I can’t let her go, any more than I can pull my gaze from her full lips.