“You cannot hold them both the entire way.”
I don’t know if Lucas thinks telling me this every fifteen minutes will change that I know this, and yet I can’t seem to put the little critters back in their travel kennel. When we stopped to pick up the puppies I wasn’t sure what to expect. It sure wasn’t two little fur balls running toward me like a puppy food commercial. I dropped to the ground immediately and let them smother me with kisses and even tolerated the pain from their razor-sharp teeth.
Fred and Wilma are the cutest little black and gray lab babies I’ve ever seen. Well, technically they’re the only lab babies I’ve seen but that’s neither here nor there. I’m not sure I’ll be able to give them to their forever family when we get to Washington. Lucas warned me to not get too attached but it’s like he doesn’t know me at all. I was attached as soon as they ran to me. Obviously.
“I can hold them the entire way if I so please, thank you very much.” My declaration leaves no room for argument and Lucas shakes his head at me in disbelief. He has such little faith in me. It’s sad, really. There’s nothing wrong with holding these adorable, loving, shit . . . what the fuck?
“Shit. Hell. Oh, Fred . . .”
“And that is why you can’t hold them the entire way. He pissed on you, didn’t he?”
Glaring I offer a simple response, “Shut up.”
Laughing, Lucas continues to drive for a few miles until there’s an exit marked gas and food. Once he pulls into a parking space at a fast food restaurant, I sigh in relief. If Fred did his business, I can only assume Wilma won’t be far behind. Lucas jumps out of the truck and runs around to my side, pulling both puppies from my hold and walking them to a patch of grass a few feet away. Cringing, I search the glove compartment for napkins or something to wipe up this mess. I come up empty-handed. What kind of sorcery is this? Who doesn’t have napkins in their glove box?
“There’s a towel in the back seat. You may want to change,” Lucas shouts.
Rolling my eyes, I climb out of the truck and open the back door to retrieve the towel. Once I’ve patted my leg dry, or drier at least, I walk to the back of the truck and pull out my suitcase for a change of clothes. So much for a few days’ worth of clothes.
Not wanting to be one of those people who only uses a bathroom and doesn’t buy anything, I snatch my wallet from my tote and quickly rush inside to change and get a snack.
After the impromptu stop, we snacked on the orders—yes plural—of French fries I bought and enjoyed our chocolate shakes in silence. Silence usually drives me crazy. Normally, I have this ridiculous need to fill the void, but with Lucas it doesn’t bother me. Every so often, I’ll catch him singing along to one of the eighties songs on the playlist I chose after our stop. Wilma is having a puppy-mare in the back seat and Lucas and I both start laughing at the same time when her whimpers turn to snores.
As I look out the window, I’m disappointed in the view. I’ve lived in California my entire life and while I’ve spent most of my time in beach cities, I had no idea how dreary the scenery was in other parts of the state. Thankfully, the sun shines bright regardless of the backdrop. Closing my eyes, I let the sun warm me as I begin to doze off.
They say dreams tell a person a lot about their subconscious. What do nightmares tell a person? Because, like Wilma, I’m having one hell of a nightmare of wedding cakes, ripped dresses, and crying mothers. One dream morphs to another and soon I’m standing on a swimming platform wearing a torn dress, a bottle of champagne in one hand, and a piece of pizza in my other. The theme song from Golden Girls plays in a constant loop and I’m shaking as I stare down to a dark lake. The shaking is out of control and now the music has changed to a chant of my name.
“Whit, wake up.”
Shake.
Shake.
“Whitney, goddammit, do not make me pull over. You need to wake up.”
Jumping from my resting place against the window, my hands fly in front of my face, smacking the hand on my bicep. Disoriented, it takes me a few minutes to realize where I am. The sun is no longer shining bright as it sets in the distance, the sky beautiful hues of purple, orange, and yellow. Lucas’s truck. I stop flailing around when I hear my phone ringing in my purse. Golden Girls. Jessi.
“Shit. Sorry,” I mutter as I rummage through my tote for my phone.
“That song has been playing every thirty seconds for the last ten minutes. I thought I was going to have to pull over and chuck it out the window.”
“It’s Jessi. This can’t be good.”
Victory is mine when I find my phone lodged between my wallet and tablet. Sliding my finger across the green “answer” icon, I don’t get a chance to greet my best friend before she starts on a tirade.
“He was at my house, Whit. Do you hear me? Are you there? Shit. Do you even have reception where you are? What do I tell him?”
“May I speak?” I ask, and Lucas sniggers in the seat next to me. We approach a sign that indicates restrooms only seven miles away and I point to it, indicating my need for a potty break likely to match that of the little fur babies in the back seat. When Jessi doesn’t respond, I take that as my cue to answer her question. “Tell who what? I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“Trenton. I didn’t know he knew where I lived. Yet, there he was. Sitting on my fucking porch when I pulled up. Dickhead. I swear. Like he thinks I’m going to tell him shit. I mean, I can’t, right? I should tell him to suck it.”
“Wait, what? He was at your house?” I shout into the phone, startling not only Lucas but the puppies. Mouthing “sorry” I turn my attention back to Jessi but with less emphasis as before. “Why was he there? I told him I would call him when I was ready.”
“I don’t know. I hightailed it out of there and went to the gym to shower. I have no problem talking to him, but I also know you don’t want me to tell him what I really think, so I figured I’d call you. But you haven’t been answering my texts!” Cringing, I pull the phone from my ear as she shouts the end of her statement.
“Sorry, I dozed off and didn’t hear my phone. I guess I should send him a text. I’ll do that now and tell him to leave you alone. Please don’t tell him off or anything. I don’t need any more chaos right now.”
She begrudgingly agrees, and we say our goodbyes before I pull up my blocked numbers and tap Trenton’s name. I know him and his need to have the final say so I blocked him after arriving at Jessi’s on Friday.
Me: I’m fine. I told you I would call you when I was ready.
Me: Please leave my friends alone.
He must be sitting with the phone in his hand because before I see the “delivered” confirmation on the second text, a response is already coming through to the first.
Trenton: You can’t just disappear, Whitney.
Oh, the hell I can’t.
Me: Let’s be clear about something. I CAN do whatever I wish. YOU cannot have other women suck your dick.
Trenton: You haven’t even let me explain. Baby, we’re getting married in five days. Come home.
Me: Fuck you, Trenton. I’ll be back when I am ready.
Trenton: You’ll be back before Friday, right? Our families will be here for the rehearsal.
Me: I don’t know. Please give me the time I asked for.
Instead of waiting for the delivery, I block the number and toss my phone in my tote. Sighing, I rest my head on the seat with my eyes closed. I can feel a headache forming; the stress of the last few days seeps into every muscle of my body. When Lucas’s hand grips mine and squeezes, I blink back the tears that have formed. I will not cry anymore. With a tight-lipped smile, I thank Lucas without words. When he releases my hand, I feel the loss immediately.
The room is nothing to write home about. The walls are plain but for the one adorned with pink floral wallpaper. A television sits atop a large dresser that looks like it’s been in this room as long as I’ve been alive. Nothing special, but it’ll do for the night. Fred and Wilma whimper from their travel kennel drawing my attention away from the strange art work hanging on the wall. I’m using the term “art” loosely, but it did catch my eye right away, so it works.
“Hey guys, are you sick of this thing. I bet Lucas is bummed I stole you from him. Come on, hop on out of there,” I singsong to the puppies as I open the door to their kennel. Barreling out, they stumble and tumble over each other. I can see why Wilma wasn’t named Grace, she’s definitely not graceful.
I sit on the floor with Fred and Wilma while they chase each other and roll around playing a real-life version of a dog pile. A knock on the door draws me from their antics. Standing, I reach for the handle and only crack the door open so not to give the babies a means of escape.
The delicious aroma of takeout fills my nostrils and my tummy rumbles in appreciation. Snatching the offered bag, I step back and let Lucas in the room. I didn’t realize how hungry I was until this moment. I go about setting the food out on the table in the corner while he squats down to pet the pups. When he stands with Wilma in his hands, I promise my ovaries don’t ping. Not a one.
Maybe one.
Fine, both.
Ping city here.
What can I say? There’s something about a hot guy holding a sweet baby puppy as he lets her lick his face like an ice cream cone that gives me the warm fuzzies. I know beyond a doubt I’m not alone, no way any woman can deny how hot that is. I mean, I suppose she could deny it, you know, if she was heartless. But I’m not. I’m full of gratitude for these days to figure my life out, for childhood friends that come back into your life, and for puppies who cuddle and give puppy kisses without prompting.
“Ouch. Dang little girl, those teeth are razor sharp. Go play with your brother,” Lucas scolds Wilma as he sets her down and turns his attention back to me. “Little barracudas. I brought Mexican, I hope that was okay.”
“It’s perfect. Thank you.”
It may be a little too perfect.