Georgie, All Along (24)

I made all the right plans, but somehow they’ve all gone wrong.

The truth is, the guilt’s the main thing that’s gotten me to come back here tonight. The hotel I’d booked gave me a flat no about bringing my dog, no matter that it was only for one night. Maybe if Hank hadn’t had his ear half torn off by a Yorkie with an attitude problem, I would’ve gone back to our place, pulled out my old tent from the shed, and made it a campout for a while. But I can’t force Hank to sleep outside after what he went through, and the house is way too much of a mess to even attempt sleeping inside—I called to check. The contractor laughed and said I didn’t have floors in half the house or running water, and wouldn’t have the latter for a couple more days at least.

So it’s night two at the Mulcahy motel, and I can only hope the proprietor is fully dressed this time. Last night I had a dream about those legs, which made me feel like a real fucking pervert, seeing as how I’m a guest of her parents. If I would’ve had that can of Raid nearby, I might’ve sprayed myself. Frankly the dream is half of what had me so insistent about looking for that hotel first thing this morning, after I’d crept around the house quiet as a mouse trying not to wake her, cringing with embarrassment every time Hank made a sound. That’s to say nothing of how it’d felt to hear the shower running while she was in there last night, how I could smell her soap and shampoo on the steam that wafted into the house after she’d gotten out. Or how the walls are thin enough that I could hear she was still awake when I finally got in bed, turning the pages of something.

But tonight, I don’t need to notice any of that. I need to take care of Hank.

He’s pushed himself up from where he had his head lying on my lap, recognizing that we’re back where we were last night. When I let him out then, he’d run all over this bonkers yard, sniffing at that big rooster and nudging all the wind chimes he could reach with his snout before tearing two circles in the weedy grass and then, obviously, bolting through the open door, carefree and excited. Now, though, he looks balefully at me when I get out, as though it’s all four of his legs and not his ear that have been torn up.

“Come on, pal,” I say, patting my thigh, but he only looks at me. I can’t be expected to move after what I’ve endured, that look says.

A real drama queen, my Hank.

Still, I do what he wants, ducking back into the cab of the truck and getting my arms around him, avoiding his injury as I lift him gingerly, backing my way out of the cab once I’ve got a hold. It’s gangly, Hank’s toenails scrabbling against my shirt, me trying to avoid hitting my head on the doorframe. When I straighten, I turn toward the house, and damn if Georgie Mulcahy isn’t standing there in the back door, watching me awkwardly hold my dog as if he’s an unruly toddler.

Hell.

I crouch, setting Hank down. He clings a bit at first, but once he sees someone else around he forgets all about me, and about his ear, because that big old tail gets wagging again and he starts going toward her, already panting happily.

“I see how it is,” I mutter to myself, but inside I’m relieved. Probably he’ll never see a Yorkie without shitting himself again, but at least he still seems all right with people. Georgie’s already on her haunches, arms out, like Hank’s her long-lost friend, and I have to avert my eyes. She’s dressed, thank Christ, but she’s got on cutoff jean shorts and bare feet. I’m still seeing an awful lot of those legs I had the dream about, and I’m rattled all over again.

Wasp spray, I think, as if it’s some kind of talisman.

I busy myself with getting things out of my truck—Hank’s bed and kit, my bag, the same stuff I brought out here this morning, assuming I’d be finding another place to stay. Probably I’ll be doing the same thing tomorrow morning, but I’ll think about that then. Tonight I’ll get Hank fed and settled, give him one of those pain pills the doctor prescribed, and I don’t know what else. I guess hide out in the guest room until Georgie goes to bed, so I don’t make her uncomfortable with my typical grouchy silence. Maybe I’ll turn on a podcast real loud, avoid the shower sounds.

Something tells me, though, that she’s got other plans.

When I reach her, she’s still crouched down, talking to Hank as if he’s giving her answers back. “And then what happened?” she says, eyes big, and honestly it’s as if he’s trying to talk to her, the way he makes these snorting, gasping noises in reply.

“Ugh, so unfair,” says Georgie, gently patting his flank, listening intently again. “Truly, what a bitch,” she says, and dang, Hank almost seems to laugh. This is dog whisperer shit. I almost cried when I first saw Hank, and Georgie’s fixed him up simply by acting like he had a schoolyard scuffle. It works so well that Hank bolts out into the yard to take care of his business, and Georgie unfolds herself easily, as if she’s been welcoming neurotic dogs home from school every day of her life. She’s tall like her dad is; in her bare feet the top of her head comes almost to my nose. Her hair’s damp, which means I’m going to be spared shower sounds, but probably not shower smells. I think her shampoo has rosemary in it.

“See what I did there?” she says, jolting me out of my thoughts. About rosemary, for God’s sake.

I clear my throat, nod. “Yeah, thanks. You made him feel better.”

She wrinkles her brow at me. “Oh. I meant . . . see what I did there”—here, she waggles the wrinkled brow—“calling the dog a bitch? Because you said it was a fem—”