Them (Him #3)

by Carey Heywood

  Together, we get signed in and follow a volunteer back to where the kennels are. Given the amount of dogs, the room we enter doesn’t smell that great. It’s clean, but I guess there’s no avoiding that dog smell when there are a bunch of them all in one place.

  I want to ask Will if he thinks one dog all by itself will smell like this, but the volunteer is standing right there and that would be rude.

  “What kind of dog would you like?” Will glances around the room.

  “I’m not sure,” I admit.

  I was hoping that the perfect dog would somehow get my attention as I passed its kennel. Trouble was all of the dogs were trying to get my attention.

  “Maybe we can narrow our options down by figuring out what you don’t want,” he suggests.

  “Not too big,” I say, picturing myself being dragged down the street by a giant dog. “And not too small,” I add.

  “So a medium-sized dog,” Will teases.

  I smirk; he’s so clever. “Yes, a medium-sized dog.”

  There are still so many to choose from. It’s daunting.

  “Let’s read their info tags.” Will takes my hand and pulls me closer to the first set of kennels. “See.” He points. “Some of them aren’t good with kids.”

  We’re able to eliminate a bunch based on that alone.

  “What about this one?” I ask, approaching the kennel of a black puppy with a white triangle between her eyes.

  “Rascal,” he reads the name on her tag. “They think she’s a rotty-lab mix. That sounds like she’ll get pretty big.”

  I hold my hand up for her to sniff and her tongue darts out to lick it before her dark brown eyes hit mine. “I can live with that.”

  His arms wrap around my middle as he comes to stand behind me, resting his chin on my shoulder. “So, is this our new puppy?”

  Turning my face toward him, I smile.

  The volunteer comes over to tell us about a small play area we can sit with her in, to get an idea of her temperament so we can confirm we still want her before we start filling out any forms. She opens her kennel, and it’s beyond cute watching her get so excited to come out and play for a while. After she clips a leash to her, we follow the volunteer to a small room with a floor-to-ceiling window that looks out into the area we were just in.

  “Knock on the glass when you’re ready to come out.”

  Will nods as she passes him the leash.

  There are chairs in the room, but I ignore them and sink directly onto the floor. “Come here, girl.”

  She bounds over to me, topple-hopping onto my leg as she tries to lick my face. Will sits next to me and pets her back.

  “She’s so sweet,” I gasp, gathering her up in my arms and giving her a squeeze.

  “She’s definitely full of energy. I think she might be a handful. Are you sure she’s the one you want?”

  I nod. “She’s perfect.”

  He laughs. “Do you want to stay in here while I go fill out the paperwork?”

  “Yes, please.” I grin.

  Once he leaves, Rascal starts licking and biting at my silver hoop earring. It tickles and she’s set on doing it. I giggle as I struggle to push her down. She relents and is content to lick my hands instead. I pull out my phone and snap a picture of her to text to Sawyer. It’s blurry because she won’t sit still, but it’s still cute.

  “Are you going to be my partner in crime?” I ask.

  She doesn’t respond, but she does look up at me so I take it as a yes. “And we’ll go on lots of walks,” I add.

  The start of winter may not have been the best time of year to get a dog. At least Atlanta is much milder temperature-wise versus Denver, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t get cold here. It’ll give me an excuse to bundle up in my warmest clothes.

  I continue to play with her until Will returns.

  “Is she ours?” I ask.

  He grins. “She is. Let’s take her to PetRight so we can get her some food and a bed.”

  ‘Some food and a bed’ morphed into half of the store by the time we were done. Will laughed as I loaded up our cart, but I wanted to make sure she had everything she needed.

  When he had first suggested getting a puppy, I had balked at the idea. I wasn’t sure what his intention behind getting her was and it had made me defensive, which was crazy. Sometimes, a puppy was just a puppy.

  Before leaving the store, I put her new collar on and clipped her new leash to it. Will pushed the cart while I walked her. She wanted to sniff everything between the store and our car, and I do mean everything. For a little dog, not even ten pounds, she was stronger than I expected, and very determined.

  “Hush.” I laughed at Will as he cracked up watching me attempt to corral her.

  She sat in my lap on our way back to the house. We stopped for fast food and had to put the bags in the back seat so she’d stop sniffing at them. Knowing where the source of good-smelling food was and not being able to get to it frustrated her. She struggled in vain to make her way into the back seat.

  Our back yard is fully fenced, so I let her run around back there as Will and I carried everything in from the car. Even though she had all that space to roam, she stayed right by the gate and whined. It is irrational how devoted I already was to that little bundle of fur and how hearing her cry broke my heart.

  “I take it I’m going to be the bad cop,” Will noted, frowning at me.

  “Huh?”

  “I can tell. Our little girl does something bad, I’m going to have to be the one to train her.”

  I gape at him. “Rascal would never do anything bad.”

  Since everything is in the house, I walk over to the back door to call for her. It’s dark out, Daylight Savings ensuring we lost an hour of light in the evenings. I could hear her approach but the sound stopped at the stairs to our deck. Flipping on the outdoor light, I walk out to investigate.

  I find her sitting with her front paws on the first step and the most pitiful expression on her little puppy dog face.

  “Oh, honey,” I coo, hurrying down to scoop her up. “Somebody doesn’t know how to climb stairs yet.

  As I close the door behind me, I’m surprised by how much Will’s already set up. Our dinner still sits in its bag, but Rascal’s new food and water dish have already been washed, dried and set out in the corner of our kitchen on the cute mat we bought for them. Both are full, so I set her down and show them to her in case she’s hungry or thirsty.

  Will isn’t in the kitchen, though. Glancing around, I spy his bent-over figure in the living room, putting together the crate we bought her.

  “You don’t need to do that right this second,” I tease, walking over to comb my fingers through his soft, brown hair. “Let’s eat.”

  When he looks up at me, his expression so impossibly boyish, I melt. I’m staring at the boy I fell in love with all those years ago. Sinking onto my knees next to him, I cradle his face in my hands and kiss him.

  His hands drop the side of the crate he was working on as he moves them to band snuggly around my waist, deepening our kiss. We’re interrupted by an excited puppy, who wants to play, and I leave them both to go collect our dinner. They’re still roughhousing when I return.

  Setting our plates on the coffee table, I ask Will what he wants to drink.

  “I’ll grab drinks,” he replies, standing up.

  Rascal trails after him, attempting to chew on the bottom of his jeans with each step he takes. We’re sitting back, TV on, new puppy chewing on a toy, when Will’s phone rings.

  He frowns at the caller ID and mutes the TV before answering. I can only hear his end of the conversation.

  “Hello.”

  . . .

  “This is William Price.”

  . . .

  “He’s one of my students.”

  . . .

  He drags his hand over his face. “Where were they taken?”

  . . .

  “How bad is it?

  . . .

>   He stands, weary eyes finding mine. “Yes, I’m on my way.”

  As soon as he ends the calls, he turns to me. “Logan, you know, the kid who eats lunch in my class.” I nod. “He and his dad were in a car accident.”

  “Are they okay? How did they know to call you?”

  “They wouldn’t say over the phone, so I’m not sure. Maybe Logan had my number in his phone. I gave it to him a while ago.”

  I nod, standing. “Do you want me to come with you?”

  He reaches out, his hand gripping me by the back of my neck as he kisses me hard.

  Too soon, he pulls away. “Stay here with the puppy. I’ll call you as soon as I know more.”

  I pick up Rascal to keep her from trying to follow Will as he shrugs on his coat and then is out the door. Once he’s gone, I flip the dead bolt as she licks my neck. The silence is comforting as I pray for Will’s student and his father. I’ve never been overly religious. I don’t pray regularly, or maybe I do without calling them prayers or addressing them to God.

  I sink back down onto my sofa, where moments ago I cuddled with my husband in our new puppy glow. In moments like this, when life pauses to remind us how fragile it actually is, I think of my family and friends.

  Rascal is distracting but not enough. I catch myself checking my phone over and over again as I wait to hear news from Will.

  Will

  When I get to the hospital, no one will speak to me. I’m not family. As far as I know, the only family around is Logan’s grandmother and she’s in poor health. Trying to explain to a hospital administrator that the only reason I’m here right now is because someone from there called me is equally frustrating.

  “He’s a reservist. If you won’t talk to me, can you talk to someone from the military?” I ask, frustration evident in my tone.

  That seems to trigger something and she picks up her phone. She didn’t ask me to leave, so even if it’s rude I listen to her call, my stomach dropping when she tells them arrangements need to be made to inform the next of kin.

  When she hangs up, her expression softens as she turns back to me.

  “Is Logan. .?” I can’t finish my sentence.

  She slowly shakes her head, and I cover my mouth with my hand. “Oh, God, his dad?”

  She doesn’t confirm but in doing so, I know it’s true.

  “What will happen to Logan? Can you tell me if he’s hurt or not? Will Social Services be called?”

  She doesn’t answer any of my questions, just directs me back to the waiting room to sit until someone else can speak to me.

  I call Sarah as I wait. Hearing her voice calms me, and I regret declining her offer to come with me. Sarah is the one person in the world I trust more than anything else. She gasps when I tell her I believe Logan’s father may have passed away.

  “What about Logan?”

  “They won’t tell me how he is or let me see him,” I groan.

  I don’t hear what she says in reply as a nurse approaches me. “Honey, I have to go.”

  “Are you here for Logan Turner?”

  “Yes.” I stand.

  “Someone from Social Services is here and wanted to speak with you.”

  In a daze, I follow her.

  Logan regained consciousness the morning after the car accident. He had a broken arm and a concussion. I sat with him as his social worker told him his father had passed away. When the social worker explained he would be moved into a group home as his grandmother was not well enough to care for him and he had no other living relatives, I stepped in.

  Sarah and I have been his foster parents since that night, three weeks ago. To say he’s withdrawn is a gross understatement. We do our best to draw him out, but Rascal seems to have the most success. She now sleeps in his room and when we get home from school, he walks her.

  One small blessing in all of this is Sarah is too busy to stress about getting or not getting pregnant. After my sperm count came back normal, she went and saw her doctor again. That same week, they performed an outpatient procedure to remove the polyp discovered during her ultrasound.

  Logan rides to and from school with me, and still eats lunch in my classroom every day. He misses his dad. To go so long waiting for him to come home only to lose him is a tragedy I can’t imagine. Every week, I bring him to see a grief counselor, and we visit his grandmother afterward. News of her son’s passing, so soon after losing her husband, has taken its toll.

  Logan seems hesitant to see her, but I don’t want him to regret time lost with his last remaining blood relative before she passes. This kid has had to deal with more loss than anyone should in his thirteen years on this Earth.

  Today, he asked me to take him to go see his dad. I glance over at his quiet profile as I drive to the cemetery. He was so strong, helping to plan his own father’s funeral. There was some money, life insurance that came to him. He wanted to pay for everything himself, but Sarah and I wouldn’t let him.

  Brian drew up trust paperwork and once Logan agreed, those funds, all of them, are now waiting for him once he’s eighteen. The cemetery his father rests in isn’t a far drive.

  After I park, I ask, “Do you want me to wait in the car?”

  He shakes his head so I get out and walk next to him as we follow the now-familiar path to his father’s grave. I never had an opportunity to meet his father before his passing, and I can only hope he died knowing how special his son was. There are days after Logan meets with the counselor where Logan will talk about his dad. Those days neither Sarah nor I can get a word in edgewise as Logan almost manically tells us one story after another.

  It’s as if he fears his father will be forgotten if there isn’t anyone other than him who knew his life. Other days, more recently, he’s silent, keeping everything tucked inside. That was why I gave him the option of me waiting in the car. I don’t know if he wants to talk to his dad, and I don’t want to intrude on that.

  Being here at the cemetery brings his funeral fresh to the forefront of my mind. The day was blessedly dry, but the two days of straight rain prior had saturated the grounds. Logan looked so small and alone as he stood in a new suit and watched his father’s coffin being lowered into the ground.

  He had no family members to rely on. His grandmother wasn’t well enough to leave the nursing home. There were some of his other teachers and a few of his neighbors who came, and a group of five soldiers from his father’s reserve unit came to pay their respects and offer their condolences to Logan. None of them knew Logan or had known his father directly, though, so the meeting was awkward at best.

  Logan didn’t cry, but watching as his mouth tensed with emotion over and over that day is scarred on my soul. All I wanted to do was tell him to let it all out, that it was okay to cry. That wasn’t my place, though. All I was at that point was a teacher turned unexpected foster parent. I was out of my depths and unsure of how to give him the support he needed.

  Sarah wasn’t, though. She saw his pain and curled her love around him. It wasn’t until after everyone else had left that he turned into her embrace and sobbed. The force of his pain made her take a step back to hold them both upright. I moved behind her and held them both as he finally cried.

  His tears spurred our own. It was gut-wrenching and a pain I had not experienced since the moment I first thought I had lost Sarah. Death has an uncanny way of reminding us how temporary our lives are. Almost three weeks ago, three of us stood and mourned as one in this cemetery.

  “Am I cursed, Mr. Price?”

  His heartbreaking question pulls me from my thoughts. “Why would you think that?”

  There are tears in his eyes as he turns to look at me. “Everyone around me dies. I don’t want you or Mrs. Price to die, too.”

  I tug him to my chest and hold him as he sobs. The pain, his emotion and fear so powerful, I get choked up.

  “You are not cursed, Logan.”

  His voice is muffled as he responds, “How do you know?”

  “I w
ouldn’t lie to you. When I was younger than you, my older sister died, and a few years back my dad died, too. Life isn’t always fair. It is hard and painful, but there are good things, too. You are having a lot thrown at you right now, but you are not the cause or reason for any of it. You are not cursed.”

  “Promise?” he cries.

  I pull back so I can look him in the eyes. “I promise.”

  He nods, his hand jerking up to wipe his face. “Is it okay if I talk to my dad alone for a minute?”

  I rest my hand on his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “Of course. I’ll wait for you in the car.”

  As I walk back toward the parking lot, I worry if I am capable of helping Logan get through this. I would never abandon him; I only worry I’m not good enough. Cursed? I shake my head, wondering where he could have picked that up from. He’s been dealt a rougher hand than most kids but from what I can tell at school, he isn’t being targeted by any bullies.

  We have a zero-tolerance policy on that shit. I don’t know why kids start acting all ‘Lord of The Flies’ from time to time, but we try to keep an eye out to make sure our kids feel safe at school. It seems like every single week, I’m seeing something on the news about a teenager taking their own life as a way to escape the torment of being bullied.

  I’m not waiting in the car long when Logan walks back up and gets in. His cheeks are wet, so it’s clear he cried again while he talked to his dad. Even though his dad was stationed overseas a couple of times while Logan was growing up, it’s clear they were close.

  Before I shift out of park, I turn to him. “Where’d this cursed idea come from?”

  He shrugs.

  “Any of the kids at school put that in your head?”

  He shakes his head.

  “You’d tell me if anyone was bothering you, right?”

  He nods.

  I don’t know what’s worse: him not talking at all or him asking me if he’s cursed. I don’t know him well enough to be able to tell if he’s lying to me. I’ll ask Christine to pay extra attention to him the next time he’s in her class. I can discretely ask some of his other teachers to do the same.