by S. Bennett
“Get away,” I say as I put a hand to his chest and push. He holds strong for a moment, but I give him a stern look and sterner voice. “Sit, Atticus.”
For a moment, I can see in his expression he’s going to defy me.
I point at the floor. “Sit,” I say again.
Atticus throws his head back and gives a woo-wooooo of a howl to show he doesn’t like this command, but then flops to the floor with a big sigh.
“Drama queen,” I mutter and turn back to my pot roast.
“So is Atticus going to be a star?” Bernard asks.
“Not from the show that was filmed today,” I tell him. “But Atticus was given a pretty cool opportunity while we were there.”
My gaze cuts over to Oley and he levels me with a proud smile. I’d already told him this earlier today.
“What’s that?” Bernard asks, reaching out to the platter of pot roast for another slice. Oley pushes his plate away, then leans back in his chair to listen to my story again.
“So this woman approached me, and she heads up a big media production company in New York. She follows Atticus on Instagram. Anyway, the show we were on was her company’s, but she flew down here just to meet Atticus and me. She got one of her producers to invite me out, but it was just the pretense so she could observe us firsthand.”
Bernard’s eyebrows furrow in, his knife and fork hovering over his plate. “That seems kind of… underhanded.”
“Probably,” I agree with a shrug. “At any rate, she wants Atticus and me to write a travel blog for one of their magazines. She wants us to go around the country and review pet friendly resorts. All expenses paid and even a salary.”
“What kind of salary?” Bernard asks nosily.
“The kind that could feed Atticus in beef tenderloin every night,” I say with a pointed look.
Bernard whistles appreciatively.
“I told her she should do it,” Oley interjects. “It’s for one year, and it sounds like the opportunity of a lifetime.”
The look I give Oley is affectionate and frustrated at the same time. He and I had words about this today, and we don’t see eye to eye.
Bernard turns to look back at me. “You don’t want to do it?”
“It’s just not a good time,” I tell him. “I’ve got just one more year to finish up my bachelor’s degree and of course, keeping the clinic running.”
“Those are all things that can wait one damn year,” Oley mutters. The fact he said the word “damn” means he’s serious about this.
“Maybe it’s just not my dream to travel around,” I snap.
Which is absolutely untrue. I’d love to travel around the United States, and one day maybe even to other countries. Doing it with Atticus would be a dream I could never hope to fulfill.
But the real reason is I’m not sure Oley could do without me. I feed him, take care of him, work around the farm. I set up the clinic and the well-oiled machine it is today is because of me. I know how to operate the new computer system that maintains patient records, and I’m the one that knows how to pay the bills, manage vendors, and handle payroll.
It’s just the right opportunity at the very wrong time. I told Aubrey that, and she was disappointed. She left me with her card, and told me if I ever changed my mind, I should give her a call.
Oley’s phone rings, cutting into the conversation. It’s coming from the living room and after almost four years with this man, I know it’s Tara’s ringtone.
“Want me to get it?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “It’s dinnertime. I don’t like being interrupted while I’m eating.”
“Then I suggest you eat,” I say with a pointed nod down to his plate. He picks his fork up, and then takes a small bite of potato.
Eventually, Oley’s phone quiets. He looks at me and says, “In three… two… one…”
On cue, my phone starts to ring. I don’t have separate ringtones for people, but I don’t need to look down to know it’s Oley’s daughter.
This has become a cycle lately. Tara calls to talk to her dad. He doesn’t feel like talking to her, and I can understand that. It’s been the same stilted, uninspiring, one-sided conversation he’s been having with her for years.
Then Tara will call me, and she’s not at all frustrated by not being able to talk to her father. If anything, I know she’s relieved when I answer, so she can do her duty to see how her dad is and not have to talk to him, which could eventually lead to an awkward discussion about how they never come to visit him.
I shouldn’t say “never” because over the four years I’ve been living on the farm, they’ve been a handful of times. The stays are short—overnight only—and they are miserable. Oley’s granddaughter Abigail is in her last year of college, and she’s more interested in texting her friends while here. Tara’s husband Will brings work and sits at the kitchen table the whole time immersed in legal documents. And Tara sits out on the porch doing yoga or talking on the phone with her friends most of the time, while Oley and I hang out doing stuff around the farm. It’s completely futile, and it pisses me off.
I answer Tara’s call, because it’s expected of me and it takes the pressure off Oley to have to talk to her. Bernard watches while eating pot roast, and Oley stabs a carrot but only looks at it.
“Hey, Tara,” I answer in a friendly tone.
She and I get along fine. I mean, we have absolutely nothing in common and she treats me as her father’s caretaker and employee rather than as his friend, but whatever. If I can be a buffer for Oley, then I’ll gladly do it.
“Hazel,” she replies in greeting. “Just called Dad to say hello and check in on him. Got his voice mail again.”
I cut my eyes to Oley, who’s completely enamored of his carrot.
“Yeah,” I reply. “No clue what he’s up to tonight.”
Bernard snickers softly as he chews his dinner, clearly enjoying the show.
“So,” Tara drawls. “How is he?”
“He’s doing well,” I tell her. It’s what I say every time she calls. “Work is going great. Hip still sore, but he gets around really well.”
I don’t tell her that he’s not been eating well because I doubt Oley really wants her to know, but more importantly, it would result in her jabbering for ten minutes about how he should do a detox cleanse on his system.
“Well, that’s good,” she says in such a way I seriously doubt she was listening to me. Of course, she doesn’t need to. It’s the same thing I told her last time. “Well, let him know I called and if he wants to give me a call back, that would be great. Otherwise, I’m sure we’ll catch up with each other soon.”
“Sure will,” I assure her.
“Bye, Hazel,” she replies, and then disconnects without waiting for me to say it back to her.
I set my phone down and in an overly dramatic robotic voice, I say. “Your daughter says hello. You should call her if you’d like.”
Oley gives me a mock glare, and Bernard laughs.
“Seriously though, Oley,” I chastise him gently. “You should talk to her.”
“Why?” he demands, sounding a little more cranky than normal. “She doesn’t really care. She’d rather talk to you and make sure she has nothing to feel guilty over for not giving a damn about her dad.”
This is usually a bit more than Oley shares about his feelings for his kids. This pattern with Tara is practically the same with Cameron except Cameron will leave an actual voice mail for his dad that he was calling to check in rather than call me. He does this knowing Oley won’t call back.
“I just don’t want you to have any regrets,” I tell him firmly. “God forbid something would happen to one of your kids or something.”
Oley scoffs. “I think I’m much more likely to die before they will. They’re the ones who will have regrets.”
Sadly, this is probably true. And I can’t really condemn Oley for his choices. He had no relationship with his kids long before I came along. Granted,
I think the divide widened once I moved in, as his kids felt even less need to see him or check on him with me here to watch over things. In that respect, I feel a tad guilty, but in all honesty… I’m better for him since I can be here all the time. His kids in different cities can’t do much just because of distance.
Still, it’s shitty they don’t just call him more. Talk about things he’d like to talk about rather than being so self-absorbed they only talk about themselves.
So very weird to think about how dysfunctional I was but a few short years ago with my own family. Now I enjoy very tight bonds with my mom and Liz, while Oley barely has any relationship and Bernard chooses to keep his very simple and light.
We all have our tribulations though, I guess.
CHAPTER 45
Hazel
In the over three years since my divorce, I wonder how many first dates I’ve been on.
It’s a far greater number than second dates, with third dates being almost unheard of.
I dated a man last year for almost eight weeks. Granted, that was basically once-a-week dinners as we were both really busy, which only told me that neither of us liked the other enough to make room in our schedules.
Tonight’s date seems to be going well. His name is Lee, and he’s a chiropractor. This is a setup by Marsha as he goes to her yoga class on Sunday. Marsha told me he had hit on her on the very first day, not realizing she was gay nor that her partner was sitting right beside her and would have gladly removed his testicles as she was a jealous woman.
They’ve since become yoga friends, and Marsha wanted me to meet him.
Tonight’s date is at a big chain steakhouse over on the Western Blvd extension, whereby Lee orders salmon. Not that it’s not a legit order, but I never understood people that ordered fish in a steak restaurant. I had the petit filet. It was so delicious I sadly have no leftovers to take home to Atticus.
As far as dates go, this one is shaping up well. I learned long ago to have them knock on Oley’s door rather than my apartment when picking me up, because it is far too much of an ordeal to go through Atticus’ charade of acting like a rabid killer dog when a man comes to the door. He snarls and lunges at the cage door of his kennel with foam and slobber flying all over the place. The few men who saw that happen were duly intimidated, but they failed to see the smug look on Atti’s face just as I’d close the door behind us.
Little asshole.
God, I love him.
Lee escorted me down Oley’s porch and to the passenger side of his car, which was a Mercedes. I was duly impressed. He held the door open for me and shut it after I was tucked in.
At the restaurant he held the door open for me, and pulled my chair out for me to sit. More importantly, the conversation isn’t one sided and has flowed freely back and forth between us.
If I had to take any bonus points from him, it would be his lack of enthusiasm for wanting to know more about Atticus. He was completely unintrigued by my story of how I found him in the ditch, and I know this because he didn’t ask a single follow-up question. When I pulled my phone out to show him a picture, he smiled politely and said, “Cute dog”.
It was the same exact thing Darren had said to me those years ago when he first met Atticus.
Ridiculous really.
But I overlooked it. Maybe people can’t understand the charm of Atticus until they interact with him. Maybe the pictures without context are nothing more than just a “cute dog”. I decide to give Lee the benefit of the doubt.
After dinner, we share a dessert—both of us having in common an unhealthy desire toward cheesecake. When he pays, I try not to notice, but I look anyway, and am pleased to see that Lee is a big tipper. Our waiter was fantastic, and I believe in tipping well, which goes back to my bartending days.
By the time he has me settled back into his Mercedes and we’re heading back out to the farm, I’ve pretty much decided I’ll say yes to another date if he asks.
“Have you ever done yoga?” he asks.
He’s kind of a buttoned-up type of individual, driving with his hands on the ten and two o’clock positions on the wheel. His hair is cut short and styled meticulously, not a strand out of place. His clothes were almost overly pressed, but I’m not going to let that worry me. I can’t be worried about whether he’d freak out over the amount of hair Atticus sheds at this point. We haven’t even discussed a second date yet.
“I haven’t,” I say with chagrin. Marsha’s tried to get me to go, but frankly… I’m a little intimidated by it.
“You should come tomorrow if you have some time,” he says, daring to risk a quick glance at me before looking back to the road.
“I could possibly be convinced to try it,” I say flirtatiously, thinking… this guy might have some potential. I mean… I’m not sure how I feel about a guy who does yoga. I know my dad would be rolling over in his grave right now if I thought it was cool. But I do respect he’s a progressive man who tries things like that.
He starts to tell me about the different kinds, and I immediately get overwhelmed. He’s telling me all about hot yoga—which sounds positively awful—when we’re pulling back up in front of Oley’s house.
This is always the awkward part. Does he walk me to the door or not? Is there going to be a kiss, and if so, when? Is it going to be a peck, or will there be tongue?
Lee turns off the car before shifting in his seat to face me. His hand goes to the seat behind my head. I smile in a way that hopefully conveys I want to see him again, so I would probably be open to a kiss.
He must understand the expression on my face because he leans slowly toward me. I reciprocate, willing to meet him over the center console. His hand slides to the back of my neck, and my mouth parts slightly.
His mouth, in turn, opens so wide I think I get a glimpse of tonsils. He pushes in for the kiss, mouth gaping to the extent he almost pulls my damn nose into his mouth. His lips fasten onto my face—yes, that area just beyond the edge of my lips because his mouth is so big when it opens. His tongue slides in, and then flops all around my mouth like a dying fish. It’s wet and gross, and I involuntarily push back against his shoulders.
It’s not a sexually charged kiss despite the tongue he’s trying to jam down my throat. It’s that this man doesn’t know how to kiss. He easily takes my hint to move away, but then gives me a charming smile.
“Wow,” he says all swoony like with his eyes twinkling. “What a kiss.”
Forcing myself not to grimace, I have to dig my nails into the palms of my hands not to wipe the drool off my face.
“Yeah… what a kiss,” I murmur.
“Come on,” he says softly. “Let me walk you to the door so you can get some sleep.”
I cringe as he helps me out, wondering how one awful, horrible kiss can absolutely kill dead every bit of like and attraction for a man. He starts to steer me toward Oley’s door, and there is no doubt in my mind he’s going to ask me out again.
Maybe even try to kiss me again.
There is no doubt in my mind I’d rather have a colonoscopy without any drugs.
I pull toward the side of the house, telling him. “Actually… I live above the garage.”
When we get to the staircase, he gallantly sweeps an arm out and says in a faux—and really bad—British accent—“Milady”.
I trot up the stairs, making as much noise as I can. By the time I reach the top, I can hear Atticus whining inside his kennel, knowing his mom is getting ready to walk through the door.
I quickly unlock the door, step in over the threshold, and then turn to face Lee.
He’s directly in Atticus’ line of sight, who stops whining and starts snarling.
His lips peel back, showing wickedly long, sharp canines. He pins his fierce gaze on Lee and starts lunging at the door, issuing big booming barks that speak to ripping Lee’s throat out if he can get out of the cage.
I feign surprise and hold my hand to my chest. “Atticus… what in the world has got
ten into you?”
Lee takes a step back from the door.
I turn to face him. “Honestly… he’s usually a sweet boy, and when he bites, it’s usually only if he thinks I’m threatened in any way. I’m sure he just needs to get to know you. Would you like me to let him out?”
Lee’s face goes white with terror and his eyes bug out. He holds his hand out while taking another step back. “Actually… it’s getting really late and I should be going. But thank you for a lovely evening.”
“No, thank you,” I say sincerely. “It’s been very lovely.”
“Yes, lovely,” he mutters as he’s halfway down the staircase while Atticus continues to call for his blood.
When Lee gets in his car, I turn to face my dog. “He’s gone. You can stop now.”
The barks cease immediately, and Atticus starts clawing at the plastic flooring, eager to get out to see. Gone is the ferocious, rabid dog of nightmares that wanted to disembowel Lee for having the temerity to walk his mom to the door.
In its place is ninety pounds of furry, lovable beast that only wants a hug from me.
I let Atticus out, barely bothering with the feeble “sit” commands, knowing he won’t listen. He simply has to get his excitement out, which means paws to my shoulders and my arms wrapped around him for a hug while he pelts my neck and face with slobbery kisses.
When he finally calms down, I ask him, “Want to go say hi to Oley and get some ice cream?”
Atticus barks. I’m not sure if it’s because I said Oley or ice cream, two things he dearly loves.
We make our way back down the stairs, pausing long enough for Atticus to take a short pee. He still squats, although once in a blue moon he’ll lift his leg to mark a bush. If I thought it made my dog in any way a sissy to squat when he pees, I only have to remember the look on Lee’s face tonight as he confronted my own personal Cujo.
