Over Her Dead Body(9)

CHAPTER 7




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ASHLEY


“Ashley! What happened? Where’s Brando?” Jordan asked as I burst through the front door. He had changed into pale-blue scrub bottoms and a Green Bay Packers T-shirt that was so old and worn you could almost see through it.

“Oh, Jordan, I messed up bad!” I wailed as I wiped tears and snot from my face with the back of my hand. I had known Jordan almost all my life. He’d seen me in my girls’-night best, my morning-after worst, and everything in between. I was beyond feeling self-conscious in front of him.

“Take a breath and tell me what happened,” he said calmly, like a doctor would. Comforting hysterical people was something that had always come naturally to Jordan—he’d been doing it for frightened patients, nervous interns, and at least one über-sensitive actress for the better part of the last decade. He pulled out a chair and I collapsed into it. Shame and embarrassment pressed down on my chest like a wet blanket. Jordan had told me a hundred times not to let Brando off the leash, how it would only take “one rogue squirrel” to lure him in front of a speeding car. But of course I didn’t listen.

“I only took him off the leash for a minute,” I lied. “Just so he could stretch his legs.”

Jordan crouched down in front of me and put a hand on my knee. His reach was long—I’d seen him palm a basketball many a time—and his fingers stretched high up onto my thigh. Under different circumstances I might have read something into the gesture, but at the moment I was all hysteria and oozing phlegm.

“Shhhhh,” he soothed. I was hiccup crying now, so he squeezed my leg to reassure me. “He’s small—he couldn’t have gotten too far. I’ll get changed and we’ll go look for him, OK?”

I nodded. I was too embarrassed to tell him about the gunshots. Letting Brando run free was already stupid and reckless. I didn’t want my sane, sensible roommate to know not only had I lost my dog, but I’d also chased after him, past a NO TRESPASSING sign, into the yard of someone determined to aggressively enforce it.

As Jordan stood up, my phone buzzed in my hoodie pocket. The caller ID said “Unknown Caller.” I glanced at Jordan as I answered it.

“Hello?”

“Is this Brando’s owner?” a smooth male voice asked.

“Yes! Yes it is! Do you have him?”

Jordan raised an optimistic eyebrow.

“We do indeed. And I think he’s eager to be reunited with you.” My heart exploded with joy. Running home that night, I had prayed for a miracle, promising my guardian angels if they brought my dog back to me, I’d never let him out of my sight again.

“Oh! Thank you so much,” I gushed as I jumped to my feet. “And I’m so sorry to have troubled you.”

“We’re the ones who should apologize,” the voice said. “My dear old aunt still thinks this is the Wild, Wild West and that firing a warning shot into the air is a perfectly acceptable way to tell someone they’re too close for comfort. I promise you were never in danger. She would never hurt anyone. She was just frightened.”

I felt my cheeks get hot. I was prowling around the poor old woman’s house in the black of night—of course she was frightened!

“It’s fine, I’m fine,” I stammered. “I’m sorry I scared her.”

“What’s he saying?” Jordan asked. “Who did you scare?” I held up a finger: one sec!

The voice rattled off the address, then added, “I would say just follow the sound of gunshots, but I’ve disarmed her.”

I smiled at the joke. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. Thanks for calling. And for finding my dog.”

“Someone found him!” Jordan said as I hung up the phone. I nodded, then bit my lip. I don’t know if it was relief or shame that made me start crying again, but I let loose like a fire hose.

“You’re OK, he’s OK,” Jordan soothed as he pulled me into a hug. We had hugged many times before, at “Goodbye,” or “Welcome home,” or “Happy birthday,” but this one felt different. Maybe it was all the emotion swirling around . . . or the memory of his hand on my leg, strong and warm and holding me steady. It had been a long time since I’d had a hug like that. And I didn’t want to let go.

“Want me to come with you?” he asked as my face sank into the gentle valley of his pecs. Jordan was a multisport athlete in high school—football in the fall, basketball in the winter, baseball in the spring; I had never been one of those girls who’d been impressed by athletic prowess, but who doesn’t love a hometown hero?

My thoughts turned to Brando, all alone in a stranger’s house. I released Jordan from the hug, but we were still standing nose to nose. I could have gone up on tippy-toes and kissed him if I’d wanted to. And I kind of wanted to. Is he feeling what I’m feeling? Does he remember our marriage pact? I guess my brush with death had emboldened me, because I decided it was time to find out.

“We’ve been through a lot, you and I,” I said.

“Ha!” Jordan said. “A lot of trouble! Remember when you broke the window?”

“I didn’t break the window! You broke the window.”

“Because your arm was stuck in it,” he said. “I had to get you out!” Jordan was everything you could want in a partner: easygoing, reliable, able to stop any kind of bleeding. Whether it was catching the touchdown to win the big game or freeing his hysterical roommate from the jaws of jagged window glass, he always rose to meet the moment.