What He Left Behind(56)

Thinking about it isn’t going to accomplish anything, so I do the best I can to distract myself.

After a quick dinner, I take Ariel out into the yard. Immediately, she grabs a stick and runs up to me, tail wagging so hard she’s whipping herself in the sides. I’m glad she doesn’t have her tail docked like most boxers, but damn, that’s gotta hurt. When I toss the stick, she turns, and her tail cracks me in the knee.

“Shit, dog,” I mutter, eyes watering as she takes off to get the stick.

She brings the stick back and drops it, and since I’m still leaning over to rub my knee, she slurps me in the face for good measure. Laughing, I gently nudge her away and toss the stick again. The pain fades, of course. I can’t even be mad at her—hell, I’m impressed. That tail’s a damned weapon.

I throw the stick a couple dozen times, but my arm’s getting tired well before my dog is.

“You need someone who can throw it farther,” I tell her as I put the stick in the box where all her outdoor toys end up. “Michael’s a pitcher—ask him when he comes over.”

Michael.

Fuck.

So much for distracting myself.

I take Ariel back inside and do a double take.

“Rosie.” I snap my fingers. “Get off the counter.”

She glares at me, as if to say Make me, *.

I roll my eyes and reach for her. She lifts her paw, daring me to actually pick her up.

“Really?” I return the glare. “You never get up there when Dad’s home. What the hell.”

The paw stays up, her blue eyes narrow and her ears start to go down. All Ian would have to do right now is give her a look, and she’d jump down without a fuss. Then again, she wouldn’t have gotten up there if he were here, so it would’ve been a moot point.

“Down.” I put my arm over her and scoop her off the counter. Naturally, she bites me—not hard enough to draw blood, but hard enough to let me know she is displeased. When I set her on the floor, she hisses.

“Sorry, kiddo. Dad’s not here. You’re stuck with me and Ariel tonight.”

Her ears go all the way down, and I wonder if she actually understood me or if it’s just her usual disdain. Either way, she didn’t authorize Ian’s absence this evening, and if I know what’s good for me, I’ll conjure him from thin air to do her bidding.

Then she turns away and saunters out of the room. She’ll probably go terrorize Ariel now, but at least she doesn’t use her claws on the poor dog.

Alone in the kitchen, I drum my fingers on the counter where the cat was defiantly sitting a moment ago. Between the two guys, I haven’t had much time to myself in ages. Really, not since Michael and I started sleeping together. And now, I probably have a few hours. Knowing Ian and Michael, they’ll fill any downtime with talk about baseball or football, so I don’t expect him home any time soon.

So now I just…need to figure out…what to do…

I blow out a breath in the silent kitchen. Is this how Ian feels every time I’m alone with Michael? If it bothered him, he’d have said something, but it’s weird to be in his shoes this evening.

A few chores around the house keep me busy for a while. Dishes. Some routine cleaning and tidying upstairs. Sorting a month’s worth of junk mail. Litter boxes. Topping off water dispensers for both animals. Ian and I keep the place pretty neat, though, and our animals are relatively low maintenance, so there’s only so much to do unless I want to start pressure-washing the driveway or something.

It does kill some time, though. Once I’m done, I park on the couch to catch up on some Walking Dead. Can’t exactly watch that with Ian around. Ariel jumps up beside me, flops down and rests her head on my leg. Rosie sits on the back of the armchair, peering down at us.

For the next couple of hours, I lose myself in watching a bunch of allegedly intelligent people routinely paint themselves into corners and fall victim to zombies. Ian’s probably right that it’s a stupid show, and I can’t get through an episode without at least one facepalm and a muttered “Are you kidding me?”, but it’s entertaining as hell. And Daryl’s hot, which makes up for pretty much everything.

Halfway through the sixth episode of the evening, my phone vibrates. A million imaginary texts flood my mind, and for the two seconds it takes me to get the phone from the coffee table and look at the screen, I’m suddenly and irrationally convinced that every possible worst case scenario is taking place.

But Ian’s name comes up, followed by: On my way home.

All the worry vanishes in favor of the fluttery, giddy feeling I used to get when we were dating. When he’d text me to let me know he was heading over to my apartment, and I’d start counting down the minutes until he was there. Because I knew exactly how long it took for him to get from his place to mine, just like I know down to the nanosecond how long it takes to get here from Michael’s.

Maybe I left a chore or two undone. There’s got to be something I can do for the next forty-seven minutes.

I look at the TV screen. This episode is halfway over, but that’ll kill at least some of the time. Hmm.

I click off the DVR to see what’s on TV. After flipping through a few channels, I land on a baseball game. It’s in the fourth inning, so he’ll be home long before it’s over. And at least it isn’t football. I kind of know what’s going on.