Olivia
I lock the front door and wave to Sheriff Webb as she drives away from the shelter with my two favorite perps in tow. Dalton seems like he doesn’t want to leave, and I guess I can understand that. When you suffer from PTSD, keeping your mind occupied is important. Dalton doesn’t have anyone to take his mind off anything. We needed to get him a dog, and fast. I’ve put feelers out with all of my contacts. Jake said we have a possible pup lined up in Fairhope, but another soldier wants him and has signed up for the program. He is wheelchair-bound and, from a physical standpoint, he needs the dog more.
A week on from when Dalton first joins us, we’re nearly done with the renovations. It has been like a pissing contest around here to see who can get a job done first; the boys were in on it too, until August pointed out they were cutting corners with their shoddy workmanship and they realized they had to do everything again.
August packs up the truck. Bett sits in the front seat as her brother grabs my bicycle, preparing to put it in the truck bed, when I stop him by saying, “Actually, I was planning on riding home.”
“Why? We’ll just drive you,” August says, as if it’s a done deal and I have no say in the matter.
“Because I have to stop by the clinic and check on Betty.”
“Right.” He steels his jaw and sets my bike back down on the ground.
My brow creases. I lean against the tailgate so he can’t put it up. “What is your problem with him?”
“Nothin’.” August’s hands ball into fists at his sides. “He don’t mean shit to me.”
“Right,” I say with half a grin. “That’s why you get so defensive when I bring him up.”
“I don’t get defensive,” he says. “What you do in your spare time has nothing to do with me.”
My smile falters. “Come on now, don’t be like that.”
“I ain’t being like anything. I just gotta get home and get Bett fed and into bed.”
“Okay, well, I guess it’s frozen pizza tonight?”
“Don’t worry about it. My kid sister isn’t your concern.”
“Oh, my Lord,” I say, exasperated. “You know, you really are a shit sometimes.”
“A shit?” he says, amused now. “Well, then, apologies princess. I didn’t realize I was such a pain in your ass. You have a nice night with the doc now, you hear?”
Asshole. I refrain from punching him in his pretty face and thank Dalton one last time for the day’s work, then I climb on my bike and ride away before August can start the engine on his piece-of-crap Chevy. It isn’t long before he zooms past me in a cloud of gravel and dust. Double asshole.
When I finally make it to the clinic, I knock on the door, even though it says they’re closed. I called earlier today, and Jude’s secretary told me plainly that the doc didn’t work after hours. I’d understood that, and I’d been all too willing to agree to come in first thing in the morning, but a beat later there was a clunk. I thought she’d hung up on me, but it turned out Jude had overheard and decided he wanted to talk to me himself. He politely told his secretary that he’d see to my phone call personally.
It takes a few minutes for Jude to answer the door, and when he does, I’m surprised to find him not in his scrubs, but in jeans and a dress shirt. I look down at my own clothing. I’m in jean cutoffs, and my T-shirt and arms are splattered with paint. Not exactly my finest outfit.
“Hi,” I say with a wave. “I hope I’m not late? I can come back tomorrow if you’d rather—”
“No, you’re right on time. I have someone who I think will be excited to see you, and supper’s nearly ready.”
“Supper?” I say, confused, and then it dawns on me that he thought I was asking for a date. Oh God. That is so not what I meant to imply. “Oh, I . . . um . . . I didn’t mean—”
“I know, but I thought you’d appreciate a meal after a long day, and I always make extra.”
“I couldn’t—”
“Everyone’s gotta eat, Olivia.” He pulls me inside, and I follow him through the clinic past the obscure paintings. The familiar scents of antiseptic and animal assault my nose. “Besides, you’d be doing me a favor. If you eat my portion of the Thai noodles, I won’t get fat.”
“You made Thai? What are you, Superman?”
“Well, you haven’t tasted it yet.” He shrugs. “Come on, we’ll go see your girl first. She’s doing well today.”
“She is?”
“Great, even. Her appetite has returned, and she’s moving around a fair bit—a little too much for my liking.”
I follow him through to the recovery rooms out back. It’s quiet, but there’s a little snuffling when the doc turns on the light.
“Hey, pretty girl,” I whisper at the piglet that’s now sitting upright in her crate, her sleepy eyes looking up at me and her tail wagging furiously. Before this, I never knew pigs could wag their tails, and it’s the sweetest damn thing I ever saw.
Doc gets her out of the cage, and I coo and coddle her for a long time there on the clinic floor. She has this wirey down that covers her body and tickles my arms as she nuzzles into my lap.
“She should be ready to go home in a day or two.”
“Home,” I sigh. “I don’t know where that is right now. I can’t keep a pig at a bed and breakfast.”
“I thought you had August wrapped around your little finger?”
I give a humorless laugh. “No, we’re um . . . not wrapped around anything.”
He looks surprised by that—surprised, but not at all disappointed. “Well, in any case, she can stay here until you clear it with him. But we should go eat, so we can let this little girl rest.”
“Yeah, okay.” I hug Betty goodbye and promise to come see her soon, and then Doc leads me outside and across a small paved stone courtyard and into the main house.
It’s very much a bachelor pad, only neat, with open-plan living, dark hardwood floors, and stainless steel appliances. There’s a sectional sofa in front of a huge flat-screen TV and magazines like Maxim and Sports Illustrated grace the coffee table. On top of the pile sits a magazine that’s opened to my picture and the interview I did for Southern Vet’s Life.
I pick up the copy and grin awkwardly at the doc. “You catching up on a little light reading?”
He rubs the back of his neck and smiles apologetically. “Er, sorry about that. Let me just . . .” He takes the magazine from my hands, stacks it in a pile and puts it with the others on the end table farthest from us.
Jude leads me to sit at the dining table that looks as if it’s hardly been used, while he serves up supper. I’m grateful that the room isn’t set properly with candles and the like, because that would be awkward. As if this supper wasn’t already awkward enough. I like Jude a lot, but I’m not interested in upgrading our friendship status to “in a relationship” on Facebook. He’s a good man; he just isn’t the man for me.
We talk about Paws for Cause, and he reminds me that he’s willing to check each one of the dogs for free anytime I need it. Of course, I refuse, because I know better than anyone that you need to get paid to live, but he insists, and since he’s the only vet in town, and I don’t even have a car yet, I can’t afford to go somewhere else if any of my animals need treatment.
The doc hasn’t exactly been backward in coming forwards where I’m concerned, but it’s still nice having a real conversation that isn’t loaded with tension and expectation, and the fact that he gets what I do doesn’t hurt either. After these few short weeks of living with August, it’s refreshing to not have to be on my guard all the time. On paper, Jude du Pont is the perfect man, but he’s nowhere near screwed up enough for me. I’m only attracted to broken men, the kind who I believe I can fix. The kind who don’t wanna be fixed. It’s always been that way with me and, unfortunately, now is no different.
After dinner, we move to the lounge room. I stay a little later, drink a little more wine, and when I say goodnight at his front door, for the barest hint of a second, I think he might kiss me. I even think I might like it. But that’s more than likely the wine and loneliness talking so I shake my head to clear those thoughts, and I step back and grab my bike.
“Thanks for supper.”
“You sure I can’t drive you?”
“No. I like the ride,” I say. What I don’t say is that August would likely jack him to Jesus for driving me home and showing up on his property. “Goodnight.”
“Goodnight,” he says, and I try to ignore the disappointment I see on his face and hear in his voice. I’m not used to men being so forward with me, or maybe it’s just that I’m always so busy I haven’t had time to poke my head up and see if there are men who are interested. Either way, the only capacity I want Doc in my life is as a friend, and so far, he’s been a good one. We barely know each other, but I trust him, and God knows I need all the friends I can get in this heartbreak town.