Say You'll Remember Me

Say You'll Remember Me

Abby Jimenez


To Lilia.

We will never forget you.





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A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR


While my books are all rom-coms, there are still some themes in this story that may be triggering for some readers. If you feel trigger warnings are spoilers and you don’t need them, please skip the next paragraph and jump right in.

This book contains detailed descriptions of someone with advanced dementia. There’s mention of a cheating spouse of a side character, mention of past child abuse both physical and emotional. Mention of animal abuse, cruelty, neglect, and death. There’s a scene where a dog is in peril. (The dog doesn’t die. The main character’s dog will NEVER die.) Sudden off-page death of a side character with a heart condition.





1





XAVIER


YOU WANT ME to do what?” I asked.

The middle-aged woman stood on the other side of the exam table, her dog between us. He was looking back and forth at our faces like he understood the conversation. For his sake I sincerely hoped he didn’t.

“I want you to put him down,” she said.

“He’s healthy,” I replied.

“I know,” she said, peering at him forlornly. “My mom took real good care of him before she passed.”

“Then why?”

She breathed out a dramatic sigh. “It’s what she wanted. She didn’t want him to have to live the rest of his life without her. He’d miss her too much.”

“He can bond with someone else.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so. He’s too old.”

“He’s four.”

She looked me in the eye like she was about to argue with me over taking an expired coupon. “Look,” she said. “I’m gonna level with you. Me coming here was a compromise. My husband wanted to take him out in the woods and shoot him to save us the three hundred dollars. I told him that’s not humane, and that Mom would have wanted him to go peacefully, so here we are. But if you won’t do it, he will—and he’s not a very good shot. Might take a few tries.”

I stared at her blankly. This is why I hated humans. They were the worst animals on the planet.

The dog looked up at me with sad eyes. “It’s four hundred for euthanasia,” I said flatly.

It wasn’t. It was three hundred. For everyone but her.

She agreed to the cost, and I took the dog and did what I had to do.

An hour later I was sitting in the back room, charting the visit, more irritable than usual by the event.

Tina, one of my vet techs, was standing there glaring at me with her arms crossed.

“What?” I said, without looking up.

“You know what.”

I shot her a look.

“What am I supposed to give her when she comes back for his ashes?” she asked, cocking her head.

“Do you have a fireplace?” I asked.

“No.”

“A charcoal grill?”

She twisted her face thinking about it. “I think it’s gas.”

Maggie, my other tech, opened the cabinet and put a file away. “Didn’t we cremate that one rescue dog that didn’t make it? The St. Bernard mix?” she said. “We can give her those.”

“Fine,” I said. “But give her half. It’s too much.”

Tina was scratching the very not-dead dog’s chin. “What are you gonna name him?” she asked.

“I have no idea,” I mumbled, standing.

I was getting a headache. Clenching my teeth.

“I need you to cut his hair,” I said. “Give him a schnauzer cut or something. Make him look different.”

“But he’s so cute fluffy!” Tina said.

I made pointed eye contact with both of them. “I don’t think I need to remind you that I could lose my license for what I just did.”

Tina looked at me adoringly. “We know. You’re such a hero.”

Maggie was biting her lip and nodding.

They were smiling at me. Beaming actually.

It made me more irritable.

“Do not take any pictures of this dog,” I said. “No social media. Don’t call him by his name. We don’t breathe a word of this to anyone.”

“We’ll take it to the grave,” Tina said, clutching her hands at her chest.

“I’d lie for you in court,” Maggie said. “Hand on the Bible and everything.”

Tina nodded emphatically.

“I know you don’t like to hear it,” Maggie said. “But you are truly one of the best people I know, Dr. Rush. It’s an honor to work for you.”

I frowned at the compliment. I didn’t like flattery or praise.

I did like dogs, though. I liked all animals, but especially dogs. We didn’t deserve them—and some people deserved them less than others.

“You have one more patient in room six,” Maggie said. “And God bless you, Dr. Rush.”

I gave her one more flat look, then I grabbed the tablet she handed me as I walked out. They smiled after me.