He mutters something while I regain my balance enough to carefully duckwalk the rest of the way to the closet, covering as much of myself as I can, but undoubtedly giving him a solid view of my ass the whole time, if he’s even looking, which I suspect he’s doing his best to not.
When I pop back out two minutes later completely wrapped in towels, he’s not in the bedroom anymore. And I understand why when I finally make it downstairs after getting dressed and tossing as much of my stuff as I can into my suitcase without taking too long.
He’s showered too, and he’s wearing a pair of the pajama pants that were in the dresser in the bedroom. The gray pair with the dancing hamster pattern all over them, to be specific.
That’s why he was in the bedroom.
He was getting clean clothes.
His dark hair is damp and unkempt, like he got bored in the middle of towel-drying it, and it’s dripping water onto his white T-shirt while he leans against the kitchen island and scowls at his phone.
If it weren’t for the scowl sharpening all the features in his angular face, I’d think he was a completely different man. He looks approachable in pajama pants and a white T-shirt.
Like a normal man, instead of a fancy rich man totally inconvenienced by my dog and me.
Like a man just out of the shower, getting ready for breakfast with the woman he ravaged the night before, unhappy that someone in his office is calling him in early when he’d rather eat his guest out on the kitchen counter.
Stop it, Begonia.
I force myself to focus on the pile of dishes on the island, which is a stark reminder that my dog and I are definitely an inconvenience.
Must you leave your dirty cereal bowl on the counter, Begonia? I have better things to do than pick up after you.
Chad was a financial advisor with one of the big firms in Richmond, always up before the sun checking the markets, falling asleep listening to financial podcasts every night, while I’m just a high school art teacher who doesn’t get to do art for fun nearly as often as you’d think I would, and who sometimes gets her head stuck in the clouds. I make the money, you do the dishes. I make the money, you do the laundry. I make the money…
You get the idea.
So, yes, I left my dirty dishes all over the kitchen yesterday.
And yes, Hayes is sliding me a death glare that suggests he, too, prefers life neat and orderly. And that’s before Marshmallow trots into the kitchen, flips the lights off with his snout, and opens the dishwasher.
Hayes slides a look at me, then at the fridge, which is also gaping wide open.
Dammit.
How long has that been open?
Oh, no.
Is my cheesecake ruined?
Here I go, wincing again. “He was raised from birth to be a service dog, but he flunked out of the program when he started doing all the things he’d learned because he wanted to, instead of only on command. I have things Marshmallow-proofed at home. We have a good system. He’s out of his element here.”
“Your dog called my mother.”
I don’t know what precisely that means to Hayes Rutherford, but I have a terrible feeling it’s not good, and that it’s making every bit of me being here even worse.
5
Hayes
This woman cannot stand still, and neither can her face. She’s had approximately a dozen shifts in expression as she’s absorbed the news that she can’t possibly understand about her dog calling my mother. It’s actually strange to see her skin moving, white and smooth, rather than green and flaky and crumbling every time her lips twitch one way or her forehead wrinkles another way.
She’s fully clothed now, in tattered jeans that hug her hips and a pink crop top hoodie, but her feet are still bare, showing off toenails painted all random colors, no rhyme or reason. And her hair—I’m not entirely certain what color she was going for, but it’s somewhere between burgundy and purple, and it’s giving off a fluorescent shine, as though it could double as a beacon were we to get stranded here and need to signal for help.
It’s quite bright. Impossible to miss.
“Well, I hope Marshmallow was polite and didn’t bark your mother’s ear off,” she finally says. She flits to the fridge, glances inside, grimaces, closes the doors, and then heads to the island, where she piles plates and bowls and utensils. She carries them to the sink, smiling indulgently at her dog, who’s now gazing at me like I’m some kind of dog god. “Good boy, helping Mommy with the dishes.”
“The contract, Ms. Fairchild.” I don’t tell her my mother’s left me six voice messages and is now not answering my return call, which means there’s zero doubt in my mind that she’s taxiing down a runway right now.