Georgie, All Along (23)

My phone finally chimes again, but it’s not an answer. Or if it is, it’s in some kind of code. Two o’s and a capital I.

Without thinking, I press the button for an audio call at the top of this newborn, nonsensical text chain. As soon as I do it I realize it’s not a good idea; these days actual phone calls are for intimates and robocallers, and there’s no in between. But it’s already ringing and it’d be weird to hang up, and anyway he answers even before the second ring has begun.

“That was an accident,” he says, by way of greeting. His voice is . . . extremely irritated. Ernie, I’m in a hurry irritated, which means now I’m irritated, too.

“Look, did you find a—” I break off when I hear a low, long, mournful whimper. “What was that?”

I hear Levi sigh. “Listen, I’ve got my hands full at the moment.”

“Was that your dog?”

Another one of those awful whimpers. I’m suddenly intensely worried over this dog who passed gas in my parents’ kitchen last night.

Levi makes a noise of assent. “He’s all right,” he says, but it’s almost as if he’s saying it more to Hank, more to himself, than to me.

“What happened?” I know that at this point I’m pelting this man I hardly know with questions he clearly doesn’t want to answer, at least when it’s me who’s asking. But even over the phone, there’s still that tug inside me about him.

I can’t turn him away.

There’s a long pause on the other end, probably while Levi weighs the relative convenience of simply hanging up on me and blocking my number.

Then he says, “Hank got attacked at daycare today.”

“Oh no.” I think of that big goof ball’s humongous smile. His toenails tapping on the floor while I dozed in the predawn hours.

“He’s all right,” he says again. “Ten staples in his right ear.”

“Oh no,” I repeat.

“It wasn’t his fault.”

I furrow my brow. “I didn’t think it was.”

It seems long pauses are a real feature of conversation with Levi Fanning, so I wait him out. The door to Nickel’s opens again, and an older couple comes out, big visors and sunglasses. Retirees.

“Hank’s timid around other dogs, always has been,” Levi finally says. “A little terrier got after him. She jumped up and hung on, tugged a bit. Hank just . . . stood there until one of the supervisors came over.”

This might be the most Levi has ever said to me all at once, and his voice is different, raw in a way that gets me right in the chest. I’m strangely affected, strangely desperate to see him.

“I shouldn’t have taken him there.” The regret in his voice is so forceful that I almost ask where he is.

Instead I say, “I don’t think it’s your fault.”

He says nothing.

“You can’t take him back there, though.” I’ve made it sound like a statement, not a question, and I hope he notices.

“No.” There’s noise on the other end of the phone, a door creaking open. “Look, the vet’s coming back in. I need to go.”

I frown. Go where, though? As in, where’s he going to go tonight? I can’t imagine it’ll be all that easy to find a hotel around here that’ll let Levi have his dog, at least not one that’ll be comfortable.

Before he can hang up, I say, “Levi?”

“Yeah?” He’s being short again, but I ignore it.

“You and Hank stay out at the house, okay? I’ll be there, too, but . . . we’ll figure it out. It’ll be fine.”

It’s what my dad would want, I know. More than a few times when I was growing up, Mom and Dad had a friend staying on our couch, the old “getting back on their feet” houseguest. It used to be annoying, sometimes awkward, but this time, it’s what I want, too. And what I want . . . well, that’s all part of the new plan, isn’t it? Get groceries, prepare for one human and one canine houseguest, wade through whatever awkwardness it brings, get going on conquering high school.

“Are you su—”

But I don’t let him finish.

I say, “See you there,” and hang up, and then I head into Nickel’s, no longer all that worried about who I’ll see inside.





Chapter 6


Levi


For the second time in as many days, I’m driving up to the Mulcahy house, feeling beat all to hell. This time, though, it’s still light out, and I actually notice the Prius beneath the carport, which should have been my first hint yesterday that I’d be walking into something unexpected.

But the prospect of another night with Georgie doesn’t have me near as rattled now, not after all the other shit I’ve dealt with today. After I’d dropped Hank off this morning, I’d found a motel over in Blue Stone that’d take me, at least, and I figured I could board Hank overnight while I figured something else out. But then I’d gotten the call, right there in the lumber aisle of the Home Depot, and everything after had been awful.

First, there was the way my stomach dropped into my feet when the lady from the daycare place had said Hank was hurt. Maybe some people would say I’m too attached to Hank, but also, I bet those people never had a dog as good as him. Second, there was the sight of him once I’d arrived—a bloody temporary bandage wrapped around his head, his big body trembling all over in waves of panic so strong he couldn’t even walk out to the truck with me. I’d had to pick him up—no mean feat, given the bulk of him—like he was a baby. He’d gone limp in my arms, and I’d felt my own wave of panic crest, but it turned out he was just relieved, I think. I didn’t even bother strapping him into his special seat belt; I let him huddle close to me on the bench seat of my truck the whole way to the vet’s office, where—and this is the third shitty part—he whimpered and fussed as if he’d had the worst day of his whole life, and that’s saying something, given where I know he came from. I’m being ridden by about ten thousand pounds of guilt, putting Hank in a situation where he got hurt.