by Lauren Layne
Finn pulls out his phone. “I need to write that down. See if Ma will stick it on a quilt for me.”
I flip him the bird. “See you guys later.”
As I climb into the truck, I pause before starting the engine, a little shaken by how eager I am to get back to the house.
No, not to the house.
To her.
Jenny
Real life is starting to creep in.
Not all the way in. I’m still not reading the tabloids, this morning I had guacamole and chips for breakfast, and I haven’t touched kale since I’ve been here. Take that, burrito baby.
But it feels like the shadows are lurking, as though my time—this precious time—is coming to an end.
Case in point: I spent most of the day on the phone.
It was supposed to be a nine o’clock check-in with my agent, but Barb had exactly 947 questions for me, and after she relayed my answers to those questions to various people, she came back with the news that my publicist, the account manager at the label, and some chick from the Today show wanted to talk to me.
I’d said yes to the first two but no to the Today show, and by one o’clock my hand was cramping from holding the old-school phone for so long, plus I was pretty sure I was developing a blister on my ear. Is that even a thing?
I keep an eye and ear out for Noah, but I haven’t seen him all day. I’m disappointed but not surprised. We spend most nights together, but we do our own thing during the day, mostly. Partially because we both have work to do, partially because I think we’re both terrified of what might happen if we get too used to each other’s company.
I lose myself in music for a while, perfecting the rhythm of “Predator,” which is becoming one of my favorite songs on the album.
But even though I’m pleased with the way things are going, I can’t escape the feeling that I’m missing something. It’s like one track eludes me, but I don’t know what it is, and it’s making me crazy.
Eventually I realize that I’m squinting to see my notebook and that the sun has set. No sign of Noah.
I head down to the kitchen, pulling a frozen dinner out of the fridge and popping it into the microwave Noah bought a few days ago. As I wait for it to heat up, I carefully listen for the truck, the crunch of his boots, or even Ranger’s big noisy bark.
Nothing.
I’m just tossing my plastic tray in the garbage after shoveling in a thoroughly unsatisfying meal when the phone rings.
I grit my teeth, really regretting giving my agent the landline number.
As expected, it’s Barb.
“One more thing,” she says by way of greeting, the second I pick up the phone.
“Sure!” I say cheerfully, even though it’s been “one more thing” all day.
“This Road and Roses thing…”
I withhold the groan. Barely.
That dang movie.
At the time it seemed harmless enough. They promised it would take up only a couple of days, at most, to film a quick karaoke scene in some offbeat movie about a retired female rodeo star trying to find herself back in the small town where she grew up.
The filming itself was as painless as promised. Even a little fun.
But word about the movie hit about the same time that my record became a hit, and all of a sudden my five minutes of screen time became the movie’s primary draw.
I know I sound like I’m complaining, and I really don’t mean to. It’s just…I can’t stand the thought of everyone staring. Whispering.
“What about it?” I ask.
“Sweetie, I know you’re working on your record, and I’ve been tolerant of that, but skipping out on the red carpet…not a good move. Ya get me?”
Has Barb always annoyed me this much? I can’t remember.
“I’m in the movie for five minutes, Barb. I sing a song.”
“Sure, but this could be your in, sweetie.”
I frown. “My in for what?”
“Hollywood. Everyone loves a pretty face, and sweetie, you’ve got a pretty face.”
If she calls me sweetie one more time…
“Well, I’ve also got a bit of baggage,” I say, trying to keep the snippiness out of my tone. “Won’t I taint the event with my ‘scarlet woman’ ways?”
I haven’t told Barb or Candice that I didn’t sleep with Shawn, mainly because I don’t think either one will believe me, and it bothers me that they’d be so willing to lie for me, even if it actually is the truth.
“You know what they say, sweetie. Better a scandal than a no-name.”
Not really the answer I’m looking for.
I bend down to rub Dolly’s head, as she’s perched herself as close as possible to my foot, apparently giving up hope that I’ll come and join her in the icy air-conditioning of the bedroom. I can’t believe I’m saying it, but not only have I readjusted to the sweaty southern heat of my childhood, I think I’m actually enjoying it.
“Jenny?”
“Yeah, I’m here,” I say, straightening. “What happens if I don’t go?”
“A mistake,” she says.
I tuck the phone between my ear and my shoulder and pile my hair into a ponytail. “I just don’t think—”
“Look, I’m going to be frank with you, sweetie. The whole running-away thing was working great for a while. It amplified the mystery about you, even as it helped cool some of the nastiness of the Bates accusations. But the tide is starting to turn.”
“Meaning?” I say, tensing a bit.
“Meaning that if you don’t get your adorable ass to that movie premiere in a couple of weeks, people are going to start to forget you. In this day and age, it’s not enough to be talented. You’ve got to be present. People need to see your name and your face constantly.”
“Even if it’s bad press?” I ask, hating that my voice is small.
She lets out a hard laugh, though it’s not a mean one. “Even if it’s bad. Hell, sweetie, you couldn’t stay the good girl forever. People were gonna get tired of it. You have an edge now. Mystery. Less girl, more woman. Less angel, more vixen.”
What if I’m not ready for any of that?
What if I don’t want it?
“Let me think about it, ‘kay?” I ask. I notice Dolly waiting patiently by the door for her nightly potty break, and I open the door a crack to let her scamper outside.
There’s a moment of silence, and I practically feel Barb’s disapproval. Or maybe not disapproval so much as mild freaking out that one of her big-name clients isn’t coming to heel.
I usually do. But that’s the thing. I just…I need a minute to think. To wrap my head around the idea of stepping in front of a hundred cameras knowing that the world no longer sees me as the innocent princess. Now I’m a tainted homewrecker.
I shouldn’t care.
But I still do. Even as I hate that I do.
“I’ll call you this week with an answer,” I tell Barb.
“Sweetie—”
“I promise. Just hold them off a few days longer, please.”
“Sure. Okay,” she relents. “And the music’s good, yeah? Radio-friendly?”
I swallow, hating that the sum of my passion can be whittled down to whether or not a DJ might deem it catchy. “Yup!”
“Good. Talk to you soon, sweetie.”
I say goodbye to Barb and take a long deep breath, trying to sort myself out. It’d be simpler if I just didn’t want to go to the movie premiere. I’d say no, stick to my guns, and that’d be the end of it.
But I sort of do. I mean, I don’t want to move back to Hollywood, but in short bursts it’s sort of fun. After all, I’m twenty-two—I like the free champagne and the dressing up. And most important, I like the way the kids who crowd their way up to the front row of events look at me with hope and dreams. The hope that they too can make a living off their art. That their work can be seen, their talent realized.
It’s why I want this house, to foster those dreams.
Bu
t what happens when I show up at that movie screening and have the wrong effect? What happens when I’m the type of girl that moms tell their little girls not to be like, the type of woman that other women scorn?
I refuse to feel even the least bit bad about my sexuality.
The double standard of a guy being a charming playboy while a woman gets labeled a slutty tramp is absolute bullshit.
I don’t care about the label.
I care that the label is unfounded. Untrue.
I pour a glass of water and move my neck from one side to the other, trying to loosen the knots. One thing’s for sure: I’m not going to figure out an answer tonight. I need a good night’s sleep, and…Noah.
I can’t explain it, but I need Noah.
I start to head upstairs to grab a bag, intent on taking a bottle of wine, some popcorn, and my raciest lingerie over to the caretaker cottage, when I remember that Dolly’s waiting for me outside the door.
I walk to the screen, my steps slowing when I don’t see her familiar little pointy face.
“Dolly?” I push the screen door open. “Dolly!”
My eyes scan for a sign of the tiny puffball, waiting for her to come bounding through the weeds, but there’s nothing.
“Dolly!”
Blindly I shove my feet into the flip-flops by the door as I burst out into the late dusk, still calling for my dog.
I try to contain my panic at first. She’ll come. Any minute now I’ll hear that high-pitched little bark, see her short legs coming toward me as she does the little run that looks sort of like a bunny hopping through the grass.
But no matter how many times I call her name, my voice getting a little louder and more frantic each time, there’s nothing. The crickets seem to grow louder, the fireflies brighter, but there’s no dog. Nothing rustling low in the weeds.
Not even an alligator.
My hand goes to my mouth as I realize the magnitude of what it means for a five-pound Pomeranian to be lost on a bayou. I haven’t seen a gator yet, but I rarely stray from the house. And I absolutely believe Noah when he says they’re out there.
“Dolly,” I whimper.
And then I’m running, ignoring the way the occasional twig jabs at my bare foot around the flimsy flip-flops, not bothering to stop for the damn crocodile stick, because Dolly doesn’t have one, and she’s the one the alligators could eat with a single snap.
I run and I run, maybe wishing I’d worked out just a little more since I’ve been in Louisiana, and then I’m at the caretaker cottage.
I don’t bother to register whether lights are on, I just slam my hand once on the door before barging in. “Noah!”
I hear Ranger’s bark, and then I see him.
Noah.
I put a hand on the door, gasping, as he turns to me in confusion, a frozen dinner in his hand that looks an awful lot like the one I just ate.
“Dolly,” I say, my voice breaking. “I can’t find her. I let her out to go to the bathroom, and I can’t…Noah, I can’t find her.”
Without a word, he tosses the plastic tray aside and moves past me toward the door, giving a quick whistle for Ranger.
“What are you—”
“We’ll find her.”
“But Noah…” I follow him onto the porch, and he’s all blurry through my tears.
“Hey,” he says, catching my chin in his hand. “We’ll find her. Take Ranger,” he orders, bending down and picking up a stick that he hands to me. “Walk to the south side of the property.” He points. “I’ll take the north side.”
“We should leave Ranger here,” I say, my hand touching the big dog’s silky head. “If there are alligators…”
“He’ll be fine,” Noah soothes. “You see one coming, make a shit-ton of noise. He’s too big to be worthwhile prey for a gator.”
“But Dolly’s not,” I say.
“We’ll find her,” he says firmly.
I nod, wanting to believe him—needing to believe him—as I adjust the stick in my palm and go running in the direction he indicated. Ranger somehow understands and follows me, and over Ranger’s mad barking I hear Noah calling my dog’s name, his voice growing fainter as he moves in the opposite direction.
I lose track of time. I lose track of where I walk, how far I walk, or even how I walk in these stupid flip-flops.
Over and over I call her name, my voice growing hoarse as my vision gets blurrier.
I’ll find her. I have to find her.
But as dusk settles into full night, there’s no sign of her, and the sound of the bayou at night is all around me now. I hear a rustling noise to my left, and for a moment hope soars. I spin around. “Dolly!”
My heart is in my throat.
Not Dolly.
Gator.
It’s smaller than I expect it to be, but no less terrifying. It’s frozen just like I’m frozen, and its wide-set eyes are creepy as hell. I can’t tell if it’s looking at me or at Ranger. I can’t tell if my poor little dog is in its belly, and for a heart-wrenching moment I wonder if the reason the gator’s not charging at Ranger is because it’s no longer hungry, satisfied by Dolly.
Am I supposed to run? Charge?
Too late I realize I should have asked Noah for more information. Out of the corner of my eye, I look at Ranger, and he’s frozen, the fur on his back standing up as he growls low and mean at the gator.
Instinctively I know that he’ll protect me, that he’d die for me.
I tighten my grip on the dumb stick. “Don’t worry,” I tell Ranger. “I’ll protect you too.”
In the end, I don’t have to.
The gator looks at the two of us for a moment longer, seeming almost bored, before slithering away into the darkness.
I drop my stick with an exhale, relieved not to be fighting off alligator teeth, but no more reassured that the beast didn’t just devour Dolly.
My eyes fill all over again. “Come on, boy,” I say with a sniffle. “Take me home.”
I let Ranger lead the way back, watching as his brown tail bounds a few feet in front of me, his head with its floppy ears turning back frequently to make sure I’m close. All the while I call Dolly’s name.
The house comes into view, and I cross my fingers—literally, I cross them—that I’ll find her waiting at the front door, little tail wagging, looking up at me like, Hello, Mom? Can we get into the freaking air-conditioning now? My fur is frizzing.
I take the last few steps at a run even though my legs are aching, my feet cut into a million pieces.
I make it up the steps before my knees buckle.
She’s not there. My baby girl is not there waiting for me.
I let out a keening wail at the realization that my dog is gone. A dog like Ranger surviving a night on the bayou? Sure. But Dolly…Dolly barely even survived Rodeo Drive.
I fall to my knees, palms hitting the wood as my head drops forward, heart breaking.
“Dolly,” I whisper.
I feel the wet nudge of Ranger’s nose against my cheek. Then he lowers himself to his belly beside me, snout resting on the back of my hand as he looks up at me, big brown eyes mournful and comforting at the same time.
I hiccup out a sob, then another.
I know there are people who say that it’s just a dog, but I’m guessing maybe those are the people who’ve never had a dog. Or maybe they have kids to absorb some of their love. But it’s just me and Dolly, and she has all my love. And now she’s gone.
I tuck my elbows into my sides, covering my face with my hands, trying to get it together, but I just can’t. I feel like I’m going to splinter.
Dolly.
I’m sorry, Dolly.
My brain does that clichéd thing where it flits through a montage of memories. Her thrashing her toys. Barking at leaves. Curling up on my pillow even when it means no room for my own head. Her playing hard to get with Ranger, and the way she’d follow Noah around like a faithful servant when he was working inside the house.
The visions are so vivid that I can actually hear her bark.
Over and over I hear her bark, and I start to cry harder, until I realize…
That is her bark.
Ranger’s already off the porch, his barks loud and manic as he darts off into the darkness.
I stand, starting to follow the big Lab, when I see him.
The porch light doesn’t give me much, but I see Noah, walking toward me in the dark, slow and steady.
In his arms is a tiny fluff ball, barking madly.
“Dolly!”
I lose a flip-flop running toward them, but barely notice. My dog squirms when I get close, and I carefully pull her from Noah’s arms, burying my face in her damp, slightly smelly fur.
“Where?” I choke out.
“The cotton ball managed to get all that ridiculous fur behind her front legs completely tangled in some sort of prickly bush on the far side of the property. Even if she heard us calling, I don’t think she could move.”
“Thank you,” I whisper. I step closer to him, all but crushing my dog between us as I press my face into his neck. “Thank you.”
Noah gathers me to him. “Always,” he whispers against my hair.
We stand like that for several minutes, Noah stroking my back soothingly, letting my heart cease its panicked gallop, before he gently steps away and turns me toward the house.
He nudges me forward, only to stop me once more, his grip tightening as he pulls me to a stop. “Princess. Your feet.”
I peek down, register that they’re covered in mud and blood. “I’ll take care of them inside.”
I start to move forward again, but he holds me back, grumbling something about me being an idiot, and then scoops me up in his big arms.
I squeak in surprise, adjusting my grip on my dog, but as he carries me toward the house and up the steps, I can’t help but giggle at the picture we must make, him carrying me, me carrying Dolly.
Only Ranger is left out, and his pissed-off bark lets us know he knows it.
Noah gently sets me down outside the door, opening it for me and the dogs before following me inside.
“Let me take her,” he says. “I want to check her paws. I think she’s okay, but she was pretty tangled. Had to cut some of that stupid fluff with my pocket knife, so don’t go getting pissed at me because she has a bad ‘do.”
