Must Love Hogs

by Xavier Neal

  There’s a very distinctive humph out of her. “Their loss. I’m sure your beer is amazing.”

  Constantly being rejected by all the bars outside of my hometown give a man a different feeling.

  “Even though you haven’t brought me any to taste yet,” she teases.

  I lightly chuckle, bump into her, and slip the leash out of her grasp. “It’s not like I keep a case of it at the apartment.”

  “Why not? Do you keep a case of it at your house?”

  “Yeah, but that’s home. The apartment…” my sentence fades away like the sun is starting to in the distance.

  “You hate it, don’t you?”

  I nod.

  “Is it because it reminds you of Carol Ann?”

  Fighting the instinct to lie so the conversation can be over, I reply, “It’s because it doesn’t feel like I belong there. In my own apartment, it’s me that feels out of place. That’s a fucked up feeling I don’t care for.”

  Ollie loops her arm around mine. “Is that why you prefer we always hang out at my place?”

  I let out a small sigh of relief from the feeling of her body being close to mine. “Yeah.”

  While we aren’t….dating or have even discussed the idea, we constantly dance in the territory. Hell, if I’m completely honest with myself, I wish we were dancing in cement. I love the moments we’re together. Whether we’re talking about the weird weather or fighting over whose turn it is to pay, it doesn’t matter. Just being with her is wonderful. But these few moments when we’re touching like this, which are steadily increasing thanks to my lucky penny wishes and Mama’s echoed scolding in the back of my brain, these are the best moments of my fucking life. Without question. How one person’s touch can cease worry as well as create joy is incredible. But that’s Ollie. Everything about her is incredible.

  After our walk ends, I swing by my apartment, change out of my button down into a t-shirt, and haul ass to Pete’s, the local bar in my hometown.

  The minute I walk through the door, I’m instantly greeted by a few of the regulars who recognize my face. Several lift their bottles to show me their support and to showcase their loyalty to my brand as well as standing by one of their own.

  I flop down on the stool beside Oliver who is also chugging back one of my beers.

  “You’re late.”

  “Five whole minutes.”

  “Late is late. You know that.”

  Out of all of us, Oliver is the least laid back of the bunch. Mama’s not sure how it happened considering the rest of us are pretty much go with the flow people, but she says everything about Oliver has always been different. He was the only one of us who was born two weeks early. He was the only one who was walking at a year exactly. The only one who stayed consistent with his growth each doctor’s visit. And he’s the only one who hates getting dirty. Makes perfect sense how he ended up with a cushy office job fixing broken computers.

  I toss a finger in the air at Scrappy, the bartender, who acknowledges me with a nod.

  “Is that why you didn’t land the deal today? Were you late?”

  Giving him a sharp look, I sarcastically reply, “No mama, I wasn’t late. They just weren’t interested.” Scrappy sits the beer in front of me at the same time I snip, “And how the hell did you know that?”

  “Blake complained on his Facebook page. Again.” Oliver adjusts his tie. “Does he realize he doesn’t have to post everything that happens to him?”

  Pop always jokes Blake is overly social to make up for the fact Oliver is not. While they’re not twins, they are close enough in age and face to make people question it. They’re also when Mama and Pop discovered their boys were capable of not getting along. Because of their constant bickering, I almost wasn’t born.

  “Other than being pissy about my tardiness, how are you?” I ask between sips. “Still seeing that chick you met online, Lisa?” Unsure if that’s the correct name since he only mentioned her once during our meet up two weeks ago, I continue to ramble off, “Liza? Lindsey…?”

  Oliver grunts his displeasure. “Nope.”

  “Nope, that wasn’t her name or you’re not seeing her anymore?”

  “Both.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope.”

  I nod my surrender while he orders us a couple of burgers and cheese fries to split. Before things can get too stale, I encourage him to talk about something I know he’s comfortable with. Work. Oliver’s blue eyes bulge at the invitation to freely complain about his most recent grievances. He drones on and on through two beers and half our meal.

  Around the time he’s finishing up his disappointment with his bonus, my cell vibrates in my pocket grabbing my attention.

  “Maybe you should quit.” My suggestion is met with a scowl. “I’m just sayin’ if you feel underappreciated or can make more money elsewhere then quit. Move on.”

  “What is with the Shaw family? Why is everyone’s first response to quit when they’re unhappy with something?”

  “Because none of us can see the point in spending that much time being miserable.”

  I swipe my phone open to view the message at the same time, Oliver grunts, “Then how do you explain dating Carol Ann for a goddamn life time?”

  The accusation pulls my eyes to his.

  “You weren’t happy yet you didn’t quit. You kept going back every time even though you hated her more and more every day. How can you tell me to leave my job, to move on, when it took you years to even consider finding someone else?”

  Thoughtlessly, I retort, “Because now I understand just how much time I really wasted.”

  Oliver’s face shifts to one of shock.

  Sometimes when I’m sitting in my office, I imagine what it would be like if Ollie and I met under better circumstances. If we would’ve met sooner. If we would’ve met before Daryl or Carol Ann had the chance to do some of the damage they’ve done. Sometimes I shake my head at all the effort I put into something with someone who just used me more than I wanted to admit.

  I look down at my phone to read the text.

  Ollie: French toast tomorrow? It’s the only breakfast food I’ve mastered cooking from scratch, lol.

  Her comment causes me to smile as it always does.

  “What?” My brother immediately questions. “What’s got you grinnin’ like a lunatic all of a sudden?”

  “My someone else…”

  It may not be official yet. But one day. One day soon I hope.

  “You boys need anything else?” Scrappy appears in front of us. “Another round, maybe? This one’s on me.”

  Oliver nods, but I decline, “I’m good. Gotta drive back into the city.”

  Scrappy leans onto the bar, a wave of smoke and whiskey wafting our direction. “Why ain’t ya stayin’ at your place out here? Isn’t work on the same property?”

  Rather than pour grains into the rumor mill of this small town, I simply state, “Have a morning meeting.”

  Which isn’t a lie. I do. The minor detail about it not being for work doesn’t need to be included.

  “Glad you’ve been keepin’ yourself buried to brows in work instead of pining over Carol Ann who was just in here the other day with her new boyfriend.”

  I swallow my disgust. “Oh yeah?”

  “Yeah,” he grumbles. “And that man’s a real piece of work. Just like her. Both were flashin’ too many diamonds for my likin’. His on his wrist. Hers on her neck. It’s like they had just come from a his and hers diamond exchange.”

  Oliver shakes his head. “That’s not a thing Scrappy.”

  “Is too,” his gravelly voice swiftly argues. “Anyway, didn’t mind ‘em bein’ in the bar, but they were all over each other. Hands in places that made crazy Mrs. Muller’s mouth mumble bible phrases about living in sin or sleeping with temptation-”

  “Being led into temptation,” my brother quietly inputs.

  “It was quite a show she was puttin’ on,” Scrappy conti
nues. “Almost makes ya wonder just how long they’ve been together…Damn sure looked like longer than just a few weeks…”

  Oliver cuts me a quick glance. “I’ll take a fresh one for sure, Scrappy. Maybe a piece of Sharon’s cheesecake, if you’ve got any.”

  “You know I always have my wife’s cheesecake,” he chuckles and stands back up.

  “Wanna make it two?” Oliver asks me. “Tonight’s on me.”

  His attempt at being sympathetic isn’t missed.

  “Sure.” I shrug. “I’ll take a piece.”

  “Coming right up,” Scrappy announces before strolling towards the back.

  In a lowered voice, my brother does his best to comfort me, “Sorry she was cheating on you, Runt. No one deserves to go through that.”

  Maybe not. But if she hadn’t there’s a high chance, Ollie and I wouldn’t have ran into each other. We wouldn’t have a friendship or the possibility for more. More importantly, if she hadn’t done what she did to me, there’s a chance I might still be as miserable as I was, just waiting around for her to come back instead of finally trying something new. Carol Ann may have walked out of my life like it was nothing, but Ollie stumbled in and stayed like it was something. Like I am something worth sticking around for. Maybe that’s why I’m not as broken up over it as everyone is expecting. Maybe I’ve finally moved onto happiness like a real Shaw always does.

  “Something is wrong!” I squeak in to the phone. “Something is very very wrong, Ford! She’s never acted like this before! She’s sitting really weird! I don’t know what to do! Tell me what to do!”

  “Whoa, calm down, Darlin’,” he casually commands from the other end of the conversation. “I’m sure she’s fine-”

  “She’s not!”

  “Take a deep breath-”

  “She’s sick!”

  “Ol-”

  “She won’t eat!”

  “Ol-”

  “She won’t drink!”

  Princess Pinky looks at me with the saddest eyes from her spot on my couch.

  “Oh God, I think she’s dying!”

  “Ollie,” the firm sound of my name shuts my lips tightly. “You can’t panic like that. Animals pick up on it. So do me a favor, in case something really is wrong with her, take a deep breath and try to calm down.” After hearing me do as he instructed, he states, “Look, I’m at work still. It’s gonna take me at least twenty-five minutes to get to you. Can you hold it together that long?”

  The realization I’m being intrusive rings a little too loud, a little too late. “God, you’re at work…” Shaking my head profusely, I apologize, “I’m so sorry. I had no right to call. You have a job! You run a company! You-”

  “Would’ve been hotter than bacon grease had you not called.”

  The analogy receives a small chortle.

  “Told you, Ollie. Any time you two need me, I’m there.”

  “But-”

  “No buts,” he ends the argument. “I’m leaving now. Just…try to refrain from further panic, please. If not for my sake than for Princess Pinky’s.”

  “Okay…” Slumping back against the couch, I quietly say, “Thanks, Ford.”

  “Anytime, baby.”

  The change to a more intimate term of endearment gets my heart racing once more, this time for a better reason.

  “I’ll um…I’ll see you shortly.”

  Ford ends the call without waiting for a proper goodbye from me.

  His conflicting actions cause me to grumble my irritation.

  It’s been six weeks since we first met. Six. Weeks. According to Camilla we’ve missed our window of being more than just close friends. I want to tell her she’s wrong or better yet that I’m praying to God she is. I can’t imagine ever feeling this comfortable around anyone else or this…painstakingly horny. It’s embarrassing. Really. One minute I’m mindlessly baring my soul over drinks, the next I’m a watching him lick Dorito cheese off his fingers wishing it were my juices instead. I have discovered the true definition of sexually frustrated. Why he hasn’t just made a move is what has me worried. In the beginning, I swore it was because it was an awkward way for two people to start dating, but as time has gone on, I’m beginning to think maybe he’s truly not interested. Maybe the vibes I believed I was getting at first were just rebound booty, the whole looking for a new woman to get into to forget the old one. Even if that’s not the Ford I feel I know, it’s the only conclusion that makes sense of the hot, cold nature he’s drowning me in. Camilla keeps suggesting I just jump in his lap and throw my tongue down his throat to prove she’s right. I’m choosing to take those comments as her way of offering comedic relief and not actual advice.

  By the time Ford arrives at my apartment, I’ve got my shoes on, purse ready, and Princess Pinky wrapped snuggly in a blanket in my arms. His concerned expression warms my heart. “You two alright?”

  “I wanna take her to the pet clinic.”

  “Ollie-”

  “No.” My head defiantly lifts. “I wanna take her to pet clinic and make sure she really is okay.”

  “Most pet clinics are closed by now. It’s after seven.”

  “Then the emergency one.”

  “They don’t typically deal with farm life, Ollie.” When my expression doesn’t budge, he caves. “Fine. I know one who does. His place is closed, but he’ll see us anyway. I’m warning you now. It’s a bit of a drive.”

  “It’s worth it if you’re sure he’ll see us.”

  “I am.”

  “Then let’s go.”

  The three of us promptly exit my apartment. After a quick message is sent, he guides us to where he parked his truck in the garage of my parking complex.

  He carefully helps me onto the step to climb inside. “Sorry about the mess. Rushin’ over didn’t give me any time to clear my shit out.”

  I look down at his muddy cowboy boots, a balled up work shirt, and his computer bag. “It’s fine.”

  Once I’m settled in, he hustles around to the other side, and gets in himself.

  On the drive out of the city, he cycles through a list of question that sounds very similar to what I’m sure the vet will ask. He asks for as many details as he can in regards to when I believe the symptoms she’s showcasing began, to the various shades of color of her last poop. Despite my gagging over pee smell accusations and the idea of possibly having to change a diaper if she indeed does have to have medication that gives her diarrhea, Ford remains the same sweet guy he always is.

  About forty-five minutes later, we’re pulling into the dark, vacant parking lot of a veterinary clinic in what feels like the middle of nowhere. The lack of other nearby businesses has me more skeptical than I care to admit out loud. Beggars can’t be choosers, but it doesn’t mean I should fear I’m going to be eaten by coyotes rather than afraid I’m going to get mugged.

  Ford kills the engine, hustles around, and helps the two of us out like he did in. When we arrive at the dusty door, he offers me a smile at the same time he knocks. The lack of answering causes him to turn his polite hits into harsh bangs.

  All of a sudden the door swings open and a frightening large man towers over us.

  “Please don’t kill us!”

  The man leans one arm on the door frame while lowering his green eyes to a glare at me.

  I said please! Maybe he’ll take that into consideration before he drags us to the basement to reenact something from Silence of The Lambs or whatever he was inspired to by an episode of Criminal Minds.

  “Knock it off, Big Foot.” Ford commands with a point of a finger. “She’s already worked up enough over the hog.”

  The giant’s grin appears wide enough to shade us from the moonlight that’s just beginning.

  “B-B-B-Big Foot? Wasn’t he covered in hair and not real?”

  The man lets out a hearty chuckle, wets his lips, and shakes his head. “You’re weren’t kiddin’, Runt. She is a beaut.”

  Not sure if he’s referencing me or th
e hog, I decide it’s best to remain silent.

  “Let us in already,” Ford demands.

  Big Foot takes a step backward allowing us safe passage inside. He shuts the door behind us while I observe the very country themed, very calming waiting area. The dark brown couches with the plaid pillows to match the plaid curtains reminds me of the shirts Ford always seems to be wearing when he sends me photos on Sundays. On the walls are stars and sweet sayings spelled out with twine or rope. Everything is neat, cleaned, and obviously shut down for the night, making me feel even guiltier about intruding.