Everything You Are(35)

“Next time ask me first,” Phee admonishes. “‘Is it okay if I roll in this putrid mess, mistress?’ I will tell you no and save you all of this suffering.”

She turns the water back on and begins rinsing, aware from past experience that at any moment Celestine might decide he’s had enough and make a run for it.

She’s about half done with the rinse job when the phone rings. Not just any ring, either, but the ringtone she’s assigned to Braden in the unlikely event he should ever decide to contact her. Not a call she wants to leave to the mercy of voice mail.

In an attempt to speed up the rinse cycle, she gets the wand at just the right angle so that water spurts backward and into her face, blinding her. Celestine takes advantage and bolts, taking the shower curtain with him.

Phee slams off the water, fumbles her way to a towel with one hand and the phone with the other.

“Hey, it’s Phee.”

A brief pause, and then Braden’s voice says, “I need an intervention.”

Celestine, blocked from further rampages by a closed bathroom door, shakes himself, spraying now-cold water all over Phee’s still-naked body.

“Shit!” she says.

Another pause. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

She mops her face with the towel again, tries to dry her body one-handed. “Oh, you totally should have. Bothered me. I mean, you’re not bothering me. Sorry. That was meant for my dog, not for you. Are you drinking?”

“Three minutes from it. Maybe two. Depends how long it takes to get the bottle open.”

“Where are you?”

“At the house. In the kitchen. Bottle in my hand.”

“Is it open?”

“Not yet.”

“Set it down. Walk out the door,” Phee says.

“Phee . . .”

“I mean it. Walk out the door. Do you have your keys?”

“Yes.”

“Set them down. Leave them there. Lock the door behind you.”

She hears him breathing. A door slams shut.

“Are you outside?”

“I’m thinking I should have maybe brought my jacket.”

“Oh my God. Why didn’t you?”

“Well, you didn’t say. I was following your directions.”

Phee starts laughing. She can’t help herself. This whole situation has reached the level of absurd.

“I’m not sure this is funny,” Braden says, but there’s just the barest hint of what might be laughter in his voice for all that.

“Do jumping jacks or something. Run in circles. I’m on my way.”

“You’re coming here?”

“Be there in twenty unless the canal bridge is up or the traffic is bad. Wait for me.”

“Where else would I go? It’s cold out here. The neighbors are staring.”

“Do a dance or something. They’ll think it’s performance art.”

She clicks off the phone and whirls into action. Celestine is just going to have to be rinsed enough. She towels him down as best she can and opens the bathroom door. He barrels out into the apartment, crashes into the couch, rolls on the floor. She leaves him to it. There’s nothing precious or breakable to worry about.

Her own bedraggled and besmudged appearance is more of a concern. She finishes drying herself. Runs a comb through her hair, wishes she had time for makeup, but she can’t waste time getting beautified when Braden has actually asked for her help. All the way to his house, she keeps reminding herself to breathe.

The traffic is on her side. It moves easily, no clogs. All of her lights are green. The bridge is down. Still, it seems like a lifetime before she pulls into his driveway.

He’s huddled on the porch, shivering, arms wrapped around himself for warmth. The mist has settled into his hair, his eyebrows. He unravels himself when she stops the car. Phee leans across and opens the passenger door. He sticks his head in and encounters Celestine, who has shoved his head through the opening between the seats and is growling, skeptical of this stranger.

Braden recoils.

“What on earth is that?”

“Celestine.”

“And what is a Celestine, exactly?”

Celestine’s tail is now at work, whacking against both seat and door. He snuffles at Braden, curious, no longer on alert.

Phee laughs. “Equal parts Newfoundland and random stray. He won’t hurt you. He growls when he’s happy.”

“Right. Of course. Could you have found a bigger dog, do you think? Or perhaps a bigger car?”

“Get in,” Phee says.

Braden’s eyebrows go up as he examines the interior. He’s a tall man. The seat is as far forward as it will go to make room for Celestine. It takes him a minute to fold himself into the available space. His hair brushes the ceiling liner; his knees press against the dash.

Celestine sniffs him eagerly the whole time, finishing his inspection with an approving swipe of the tongue. Braden wipes his sleeve across his face, mopping up slobber.

“Congratulations, you passed the canine test,” Phee says, shifting into reverse. “How’s the craving?”

“Ever present. If I drink, does your dog eat my heart and liver? Is that how this works?”

“You’re not going to drink.”