Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(74)

“Is this from the same suggestion box that wouldn’t let me swim until two hours past breakfast?”

“Probably. I also caught her throwing salt behind her shoulder the other night. Her medical advice might not be the most solid.”

“Ask her this: If I eat a seed, will a plant sprout in my stomach?”

“I already have.”

“What did she say?”

“Only if I first piss on it.”

I bite my lip to avoid snorting. One of my curls has dried askew, keeps falling on my forehead, and when Conor pulls it back behind my ear, I forget how to breathe.

“What I don’t fully understand is,” I say, struggling to stay focused, “why does it have to be your pee? I am perfectly capable of producing my own.”

“Maybe she has better faith in my aiming skills.”

“Hmm. Is this a kink of yours? Are you hiding behind a poor elderly woman to introduce water sports in our sex life?”

He blows out a heavy sigh, amused. “We do not have a sex life, Maya.”

“Bummer.” I pout, then glance at Lucrezia. “It’s okay. Not bad at all!” I say with my most brilliant smile, but she mumbles something, unconvinced.

“She asked if it hurts.”

“Tell her: less than Conor Harkness’s persistent rejections.”

“You’re going to have to learn Italian and do that yourself. She also wants to know if you’d like her to call Dr. Cacciari.”

“To pee on me?”

He may not want to smile, but oh, how he fails. “I’ve seen a tube of hydrocortisone lotion in the first aid kit. Just, wait here. And don’t let anyone piss on you.”

“You never let me have fun,” I yell after him, then limp toward Eli, who’s watching Rue carefully pet the dog we rescued. On his brow there is a deep frown.

“Where’s the vet’s office?” I ask.

“Just five minutes away. She’ll see us in an hour.”

“Nice.”

“The vet will be unpleasant,” Rue explains to the puppy. “But ultimately harmless. I advise you to just go with what they ask.” Some would baby-talk at an animal, but Rue? Not the type.

“Maybe, afterward, we should take him to the closest shelter,” Eli suggests. From his tone, not for the first time. Or the second.

“But it would break Tiny’s heart,” Rue points out. “They’re already close friends. They’ve been inseparable since Maya and Hark brought them back. We can’t split them up.”

“Baby, I get it. But we can’t just import a dog.”

“Why not?”

“Because we’re about to get married and go on a honeymoon.”

Rue scowls, and so do I. I lower myself to the floor, joining the pile she’s been forming with the dogs. Taking sides. “I would like to remind you,” I whisper in her ear, “that if at any point during this week you don’t get what you want, it is within your sacrosanct rights to go full-blown bridezilla.”

“Is it?”

“Absolutely. In fact, I think it would be fun.”

Her wide, serious eyes study me. Then her mouth twitches. “Who would that be fun for?”

“Me? But also for Bitty.”

“Bitty?”

I shrug. “Wouldn’t Bitty be the perfect name for Tiny’s companion?”

She leans forward, eye-level with the stray. Holds his gaze for a few moments, then asks: “Do you like it? Bitty?”

Bitty licks her cheek in the sloppiest of kisses, and when I look at Eli, I know what he’s seeing: someone who until two years ago used to be distrustful of pets, advocating to get a second dog.

My heart balloons. I don’t know what Eli’s does, but I’m willing to bet that it’s about ten times more grandiose than mine, because he says, “I guess I’ll figure out how to bring Bitty home.”

Rue takes his face in both hands and presses a too-intense kiss on his mouth.

“Don’t worry about your honeymoon, guys. I’ll take care of importing him. I have nowhere to go in the near future.”

“Right,” Eli says jokingly, lips against Rue’s cheek. “You’re only moving to California or Boston, finding a place to live, starting a new job, getting acclimated—”

“Yes, yes,” I reply, but I’m already wobbling outside to avoid listening, climbing the stairs with that mouthful of shame rising in my throat. It reminds me of a time when Eli would look at me and see only failure. Of being fourteen and a tangle of grief and anger and regret. It weighs like iron in my stomach, the terrible knowledge that I’m again careening toward disappointing him—

“What’s wrong, Maya?”

I’m on the landing, and Conor is in front of me. I blink, taken aback by his sudden presence. When I touch my cheek, my fingers stay dry. How does he know that something’s wrong?

“Nothing.”

He seems skeptical, but shows me the tube of lotion he’s carrying. “Come back to the living room, so we—”

“No. Here.”

“On the stairs?”

I nod. Sit on the closest step. Hold out my open palm. I don’t expect him to kneel in front of me and screw the cap off. I’m capable of reaching my own ankle, and the sting is going away on its own, anyway, but he squirts the gel on his palm first, warming it up for a few seconds. That’s why, when it makes contact with the skin of my calf, the feel of it is soothing. His touch is gentle and economical, purposeful but also lingering. Palms rough, anchoring.