If You Only Knew(103)
“That’s... Wow.”
“Don’t bother telling me it was his time and he’s at the Rainbow Bridge and at least he’s not having seizures and arthritis pain anymore.” Another healthy sip. “I’d sell my worthless soul to have him back. That stupid dog was all I had left.”
The words knife through my gut.
He has his students, after all. He has me.
But at the moment, he doesn’t look as if he wants to be consoled.
“I know how much you loved him,” I say quietly, “and I’m really sorry for your loss.”
He laughs. “You have no idea what I’ve lost.”
“I guess not.”
He looks at me with those fathomless eyes, the entire ocean of everything and nothing. Everything he feels, and nothing he wants me to see.
Then, oddly, he leans forward and kisses me on the forehead. “Even though you’re very nice, I’m going to say good-night,” he says. “I believe I’m drunk enough to pass out now, so I’m going to bed.”
He stands up, sways, and I jump up and take his arm. “I’ll get you tucked in.”
“Do what you gotta do.”
I lead him into his bedroom. Like the rest of the apartment, it’s blandly attractive. On the night table is Pet Sematary by the master of sleep deprivation, Stephen King. I slip it onto the floor so Leo won’t get any ideas.
He can’t seem to figure out how to get his T-shirt off. “Let me help, okay?” I pull it off, noting rather a lot of dog hair on it, and my throat tightens. I want to ask if it was a gentle death, if Loki went in his sleep, or drifted away courtesy of a kindly vet...or if Leo had to carry him out in a panic, the dog seizing or yelping in pain.
Based on Leo’s state right now, I have a sinking feeling it was the last one.
Leo manages to get his jeans off. I pull down the covers, and he wastes no time getting in. His eyes close instantly, like Rose’s do the second she hits the mattress.
“Do you want me to stay?” I whisper, stroking his hair.
“No.” He opens his eyes a crack. “No, thanks, I mean.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.” His eyes close again.
I get him a glass of water for the night table, take Pet Sematary with me and go into the living room. Put the bottle of vodka in the freezer.
What I want is for Leo to come out of his room and ask me to stay. I’d make him scrambled eggs and toast, and we could watch a movie, and he’d put his head in my lap and tell me he loves me, and he’s glad I’m here. That in the end, Loki liked me after all, even if it was just a little bit.
But he doesn’t. I listen at his door for a few seconds, but I don’t hear a sound.
* * *
I go down to check on Leo the next morning, extra cup of coffee in hand, but he doesn’t answer, and I don’t want to let myself in again. He might be getting some much-needed sleep. And I have two consultations. My sister’s coming in after the girls’ nap, because they’re going to be flower girls in Jared’s wedding, and I offered to make their dresses.
So I text Leo instead.
Thinking of you. Call me if you want & I’ll see you later.
Despite my worry over him, the day goes by surprisingly fast; after my first consultation, I get a call from a reporter. Hudson Bride wants to do a feature on Bliss and custom-made wedding dresses, so I invite the woman to come over. She brings a photographer to take pictures of the dresses on the showroom floor, me with a sketch pad, me sewing, Andreas peering over my shoulder, and one of me with my second bride of the day, who’s overjoyed that she gets to be in a magazine. Then I kick them out to focus on my client, who wants “Grace Kelly meets Gwen Stefani,” whatever the hell that would look like, and pumps me for my feelings on the Kardashian weddings. I can tell we’re not going to become friends.
Though I never check my phone during a consultation, I do now. Ah ha! Leo has texted back.
Thx.
Worry, irritation and disappointment twang through me. It’s not that I’m unsympathetic. It’s that I’m dying to be sympathetic. I want to hug him, to be there for him. I know he loved Loki, I know he’s a little bit heartbroken, but come on. Give me more than three letters.
Finally, my bridezilla leaves, a half hour after her allotted time, and my sister comes in, the three girls in tow. “Auntie!” they cry, charging me.
“Sugarplums!” I answer, hugging them all close to me. I kiss them over and over until they wriggle out of my arms and charge around the room.
“Don’t touch anything, little demons,” Andreas says, and they erupt in giggles and attack his legs. “Jenny, save me,” he says, making them laugh harder. He’s serious, of course, but part of his healthy paycheck involves dealing with flower girls. Especially when they’re related to me.
I take the girls into the consultation room with Rachel and mock-interview them. “Is this your first wedding? It is, I see. And your favorite color is sparkle? Mine, too. I’m thinking that you should all look like princesses. Do you agree?”
I take their measurements, and for once, all three of them are angelic at the same time, giggling as I wrap my green tape measure around their adorable little potbellies. Rachel and I talk easily about the dresses—we’re going with the classic flower-girl look of white satin and tulle with pink sashes and crowns of pink silk flowers.