by Vi Keeland
Layla: You’re ruining my chance of having a nice, normal relationship.
Shit.
I started to text back and then thought better of it. Instead, I hit call. She picked up on the first ring.
“Hey,” she breathed out.
One word, and I knew she was feeling more emotional than angry. I needed to tread softly.
“I missed your voice.”
“You missed it after a week?” she said. “You didn’t hear it for a full year and did just fine.”
I lifted my bare feet up onto the coffee table in front of me. “Ah. But I did hear your voice. I reread your letters every day. Pretty sure some of them are memorized by now. In my head, I heard your voice saying all the things you wrote in them.”
“Perhaps you should dig them out if you still have them. You can use them when you feel the need, rather than call me.”
I chuckled. “They were only a substitute because it was physically impossible to have the real thing.”
“It’s still physically impossible.” I heard the smile in her voice.
“Not at all. Just say the word, and I’ll be at your door in twenty minutes.”
She went quiet for a minute, so I teased, “If you’re debating it, I’m going to head over so we don’t waste any time on the off chance you land on yes.”
I didn’t expect the confession that came next. “I haven’t had sex since before I met you.”
“Why haven’t you?”
She was quiet for a few moments while my hopes ran wild. Then, “I didn’t want to.”
“Because you want to have it with me?”
“No. I don’t want to have it with you.”
“You don’t want to or you don’t want to want to. There’s a big difference, Freckles.”
More silence. “I don’t want to want to. I don’t even want to want to talk to you.”
That hurt like hell to hear. But it was understandable that she was afraid. I needed to earn her trust back.
“If it makes you feel any better,” I said. “I haven’t had sex since I met you either.”
From her tone, I pictured her rolling her eyes. “Poor baby. You’ve been free for three weeks and can’t find anyone to fulfill your needs?”
“Don’t fool yourself. Ass comes easy for me, too, Layla. But there’s only one ass I want, and that’s yours.”
I heard her breathing, so I knew she hadn’t hung up. Fuck it. Might as well go for broke. I hadn’t thought this conversation would be happening anytime soon. Sometimes you need to push open the door and run inside before it gets slammed in your face.
“Have dinner with me? Lunch even. Breakfast? I’ll take whatever you’re willing to give.”
“I don’t know, Gray.” She went quiet again. “I have to go. Text me Etta’s number, and I’ll call her in the morning.”
“Goodnight, beautiful.”
I waited until she hung up to move the phone from my ear. “She didn’t say no,” I mumbled to myself. Progress.
***
“Hello?”
I rolled onto my back with my cell pressed to my ear. Morning light streamed in from the small space where the blinds were missing a slat. That reminded me, I needed to toss those things, too. The slat had fallen off the first night my new bride and I had returned from the Dominican Republic, when a drunken make-out session had included backing her up against the window.
“Don’t tell me you’re still in bed, boy. You just wasted three years of your life. You should be up at the ass crack of dawn, raring to do things.”
Etta.
I rubbed sleep from my eyes with one hand. “What time is it?”
“It’s after seven in the morning.”
“Four in the afternoon is after seven in the morning, Etta. How about something more specific?”
She ignored me. “Are you free later?”
“If later means hours after seven in the morning, yes.”
“My door lock isn’t working.”
I sat up in bed. “Okay. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll head over.”
“No. No. I have the top lock on, and my neighborhood is still safe. The girls are coming over to play mahjong today. Why don’t you come over about four? I’ll make you your favorite meal.”
My mouth watered. “Gumbo?”
“And homemade peach cobbler if you stop at the store and pick something up for me.”
“I’ll rob a store if you’ll make me gumbo and peach cobbler, Etta.”
“Now now…I think it might be too soon for those type of jokes after getting out of the slammer. Never know who might be listening on the phones these days.”
I laughed. “What do you need me to pick up?”
“Some wine. Red.”
“You hate wine.”
“Well, I’m hankering for some, and I don’t know my way around the wine section of a liquor store.”
“No problem. I’ll pick you up something on the way.”
“See you this afternoon.”
Since I was up early, I figured Etta was right. There were things I would’ve given anything to be able to do over the last three years. Yet now that I could, I hadn’t made any attempt to appreciate the opportunity I had. So I dragged my lazy ass out of my comfy new bed and started my day with a long run through Central Park. Then I went to the animal shelter. I’d had to give my dog up for adoption when Max moved in because she was allergic.
I still felt guilty about it, even though I’d thoroughly vetted the couple who’d adopted him. In hindsight, I should have gotten rid of Max and kept my dog.
***
“Yeah, buddy. I know how you feel.” I stuck my fingers through the cage to pet an odd mix of Basset Hound and…something.
“Sir, please do not put your hands into the cage. Some of the dogs get aggressive when they’re in cages. If you’d like to meet one of our adoptees, just let one of our volunteers in the blue shirts know.”
“Okay. Sorry.”
I slipped my fingers from the cage. Aggressive when you’re locked up, huh? I hear that. Looks like you guys don’t have a gym around to burn it off. No bocce court either.
I continued my walk. There were a shitload of cages, each with an information card hanging from the top.
Polly. Age: Two. Breed: Terrier mix. She hovered in the back of the cage. I said hello and moved on.
Buster. Age: Twelve. Pug/Pekingese mix.
“Hey, buddy,” I said. He looked unimpressed by my greeting.
Snowy. Age: Eight weeks. Staffie mix.
“You’re fucking adorable. Some little girl is going to sucker her dad into bringing you home within days. You don’t need me.”
Snowy lifted her nose into the air like she knew it.
I walked two more rows of cages, looking for my dog. No one jumped out at me, until I hit the last cage on the bottom of the last row. Unlike all the others, there was no information sign hanging from the cage. When I crouched down to look inside, the dirtiest face greeted me. He was lying on a shoe and lifted his chin in the universal bro language that said what’s up.
I reciprocated. “What the hell happened to you, buddy?” I thought there might be a springer spaniel underneath all that matted mud.
I stopped a volunteer as she walked by. “What happened to this guy?”
“He just came in today. That’s what he looks like after the bath. Sad story. He was the pet of an older gentleman who lived alone. He died in the house while he was working on transplanting a bunch of plants, and this little guy couldn’t get anyone to listen to his barks for days. Had no food, so he chewed into a bottle of glue and somehow got himself covered in it and then apparently rolled around in some potter’s dirt, making mud. It’s all caked to his skin and hair now. We didn’t want to bother him too much today, since he just came in. Tomorrow we’ll shave him and try to get the rest out.”
“Can you take him out of the cage for me?”
The woman’s brows drew down. “You want me to put that dirty boy into a v
isitor pen?”
I smiled. “Why not? I just came back from a run. He might be just as put off by what I look and smell like.”
Me and Mudface headed to one of the small private rooms where people looking to adopt could play with the dogs and get to know them. The volunteer brought the shoe and set it down beside him.
“What’s up with the old shoe?”
“It was his owner’s. He growls if any of us try to take it away. But other than that, he’s really lovable. We think he’s just attached because he misses his owner.”
I crouched down and offered my hand for him to sniff. Mudface took one step and leaned in to smell me. Not wanting to scare him, I thought I’d let him take his time. Only Mudface had other thoughts. After about twenty seconds of sniffing, he pulled his head back and tilted it, studying me. Then he suddenly charged at me, knocking me back on my ass, and began to lick my face.
I laughed. “Jesus, dog. Your breath is almost as bad as you look.” He continued standing on his hind legs, with one paw on each of my shoulders, to keep licking.
“No.” The volunteer who’d brought us in stood and walked over from where she’d been sitting nearby, playing with her phone. She tugged at the dog’s collar. “No, Freckles.”
I looked up at her. “What did you just say?”
“I’m trying to get him off of you.”
“But what did you say?”
“I said, ‘No, Freckles’.”
“Freckles?”
“That’s his name. If you look closely, buried underneath all that mud and glue, his white nose has a bunch of brown dots.” She shrugged. “They look like freckles. Probably why the owner named him that.”
I looked closer at the dog. Sure enough, there were spots under that mess. “Freckles, huh?”
He responded by licking me again.
I nodded. “Okay, buddy. If that didn’t seal the deal, I don’t know what will.” I looked up at the volunteer. “I want to adopt Freckles.”
***
I caught myself whistling as I rang Etta’s bell. It was a beautiful spring day, tomorrow I’d go pick up my new little buddy at the shelter, Etta was making me gumbo and peach cobbler, and Layla hadn’t said no to having lunch or dinner with me. What else could I ask for?
The door opened, and that question was most definitely fucking answered. It had been a damn good day, but the prospect for an even better one had just grown exponentially.
Because it was Layla who opened Etta’s door.
Chapter 13
* * *
Layla
“What are you doing here?” My tone was more than a little accusatory.
“Etta asked me to come over and fix her door lock,” Gray replied.
“She wanted to talk to me about her tickets. Said it was hard for her to get around so well without driving, and asked if I could come by this afternoon.” I narrowed my eyes. “You put Etta up to this, didn’t you?”
He held up his right hand like he was taking an oath. “I had no idea you would be here. I swear.” A look of understanding crossed his face. He set down the bags he was carrying, along with a small toolbox. “Let me look at the lock.”
Gray knelt down and jiggled the door handle a few times. The bolt moved in and out. It seemed to work fine. Then he stuck a screwdriver into the strike plate on the other side of the doorjamb, and something popped out.
“What is that?” I said.
He swiped it from the floor and began to unfold it. “Looks like a folded-up empty book of matches kept it from locking properly.”
“A folded-up book of matches?”
“Yep. I think we both got played.” Gray closed his toolbox and stood, lifting the other bag he’d brought in with him. “She also asked me to bring red wine, even though she’s never liked wine. Said she had a hankering for it.”
“She asked me yesterday on the phone what kind of wine I liked. I said anything red.”
“Who’s at the door, Layla?” Etta called from upstairs.
If I had any doubt about Gray telling the truth, Etta’s tone confirmed she was indeed the orchestrator of this evening. It was a few octaves higher than normal and almost sing-songy. I knew she had on a big grin upstairs all by herself.
Gray shook his head and rolled his eyes. “It’s me, Etta. I’m checking out your door.” He lowered his voice and spoke to me. “I’m sorry. She means well.”
The impenetrable wall I’d built around my heart suffered a hairline fissure that he apologized on her behalf and stuck up for her, rather than calling Etta out for her little white lies. He wouldn’t embarrass her. It was sweet. Damn it.
“Oh, that’s great,” Etta called again. “I just made gumbo. Layla agreed to join me for dinner. You should stay, too.”
Gray’s gaze turned serious, and he kept his voice low. “You good with that?”
My insides were doing a little dance, even if my brain still hadn’t joined the party. “Yes, it’s fine.”
He lifted his toolbox and extended his hand toward the stairs. “After you.”
Etta’s face lit up when Gray walked into the kitchen. “Zippy. Thank you for coming to my rescue.”
Gray smiled and dug the folded matchbook she’d shoved into the door from his pocket. Holding it in the palm of his hand, he said, “Lock’s all fixed.” He winked at me. “Wind must’ve blown some debris in, and this got stuck in it.”
Etta turned her attention to the oven. “Great. That’s wonderful. Now we can all sit and have an early dinner. Did you know gumbo is one of Layla’s favorite dishes, too?”
Gray caught my eyes. “I did. She also likes escargot. Although that one I’m gonna have to disagree with.”
I was beginning to think he wasn’t exaggerating when he said he remembered everything about our time together.
“If I recall correctly,” I said. “Gray has SpaghettiOs with little hot dogs on his favorite food list. So I think we’ll have to agree to disagree on the best meals.”
Etta set a peach cobbler on top of the stove and took off her mitts. “He likes it best when you grill the hot dog and slice it up real thin, then add it to a can of regular SpaghettiOs. Did he ever tell you about the time he made them for his friend Percy while I was out at the grocery store?”
Gray walked over to a drawer and pulled out a wine opener. He took the wine he’d brought from the brown paper bag. “If we’re going to be sharing my childhood stories, I think I’m going to need this.”
Etta took my arm. “Come, sweetheart. Let’s go sit in the living room while Gray brings us some wine. By the way, before we get to the hot dog cooking story and I forget, let me tell you what Gray’s little speech issue had him calling his best friend Percy for years.”
Gray groaned and clunked the wine bottle down on the table as he mumbled under his breath, “Fuck.”
“Poor boy couldn’t pronounce his errr sound for a long time, so everything came out sounding more like an uhh. It was cute, except Percy became a word ladies don’t usually say—you know, a baby kitten.” She chuckled. “The funny part is, turned out he was right. That Percy grew up to be a big wimp.”
Etta and I went to sit in the living room together, and eventually Gray joined us with two glasses of wine and a drink he brought for Etta without having to ask what she wanted. She told me story after story about young Grayson, each more embarrassing than the last, until tears streamed down my face.
“Oh my God.” I laughed. “Stop. I can’t even sip my wine because I’m afraid it will come out my nose and stain your couch.”
Gray shook his head, but he wasn’t upset. I got the feeling nothing Etta could say or do would make him truly mad at her.
“I think we should stuff Etta’s face with some gumbo now to keep her quiet for a while.”
“Oh, Zippy. It’s all in good fun. I’m not embarrassing you, am I?”
Her use of his nickname made me realize I still didn’t know the origin. I took a drink of my wine, which was my second glass
and nearly empty already, before asking. “Where does your nickname for Gray come from, Etta? Why do you call him Zippy?”
Gray’s shoulders slouched, and his head hung. “Shit,” he muttered.
He seemed to have given up on trying to keep Etta quiet by saying her name in a warning tone and dishing out subtle glances. Instead, he braced for it.
Etta’s eyes danced with amusement. “It was the summer between kindergarten and first grade. A real hot one, but Gray wasn’t one to stay inside and play in the air conditioning, even when it was ninety-five. So he’d gotten prickly heat.” She leaned in and lowered her voice. “On his testicles.”
I covered my mouth and tried not to laugh. “Oh my God.”
“So that summer became known as commando summer. Gray said it was cooler without underwear on, and God knew he was itchy enough down there, so I didn’t force the issue. It was all well and good until the zipper incident.”
The snort I had been attempting to contain snuck out, and then Etta burst out laughing right along with me. She had to tell the rest of the story through fits of laughter.
“He was pulling on a pair of jeans and got the tiniest piece of the skin of his third leg caught.” Etta shook her head and cackled. “I put a Band-Aid on it. Didn’t bleed too much. Luckily, at that age the blood isn’t always rushing south. Think that was the end of commando summer.”
Gray was a damn good sport. He looked at the two of us laughing at his expense and leaned forward to fill my wine glass.
“Keep drinking. Maybe you won’t remember any of this tomorrow.”
I wiped tears from my eyes. “Not a chance, Zippy.”
He stood, lifting the now-empty bottle of wine, and stared down at me as he spoke to Etta. “This isn’t something I ever really wanted to hear you repeat, Etta, but I’ve heard you tell this story before, and you’re missing a part that I think is essential to restoring my manhood after the last half hour.”
Etta’s brows drew together and then she grinned. Leaning forward, she whispered. “He probably has a little scar, but by George, the boy had a big cannon for being such a little thing.”