Page 44 of We Can't Be Friends

“Callum.”

“I-I’ll go h-home.”

I shook my head no, but he couldn't see. His eyelids fluttered close. “You’re staying with me. I’ve got you. You don’t need to try with me.”

I lifted his head with a finger hooked under his chin. In the dim light the lamp on my bedside table casted over us, I spotted a tear falling down his cheek.

Cal is broken.

He’s broken like me.

My eyes started filling. My heart ached. I tried to blink away the tears, but a few snuck through.

“Chloe, stop licking my feet.” Cal’s voice brings me out of the memory of earlier this morning.

“I’m not licking your feet. That’s Tucker.”

“What is a Tucker?”

Tucker answers Cal’s question with a bark.

“My dog.”

Tucker loves toes, has since he was ten weeks old and I brought him home. We’ve been companions for six years. He’s the longest and healthiest relationship I’ve ever had.

Despite this one flaw, he’s the best companion. I know they say dogs are a man’s best friend, but it’s true.

The only thing Tucker could be better at—okay, maybe more than one flaw—is waking me up in the morning. I’m a morning bird, but he’s a butt crack early morning dog. Tucker finds pure pleasure in getting me—or anyone else in my bed, I guess—up when he wants to go out by slipping his head under the covers and licking my toes.

“Tuck, come here.”

The comforter shifts as Tucker pulls his head out from underneath it. His nails sound clack like fingers on a keyboard as he walks over to my side of the bed.

I roll over and open my eyes. “Good morning, good boy.” I kiss his snout. He returns the kiss with a slobbery lick across my face. “It’s Sunday. Let me sleep in, and I’ll take you on an extra-long W-A-L-K today.”

Tucker also speaks human.

His tail wags happily, slapping against my bedside table. How that doesn’t hurt him is one of the greatest mysteries of my life. He jumps into the bed, stomping on my stomach before nuzzling himself between Callum and me. His head nestled into the curve of Cal’s neck.

“This is freaky,” I admit aloud.

“Huh?”

“Tucker likes you.”

“Okay?” Cal groans. I know as he starts to fully wake, he’s going to be reeling in whatever happened last night.

“He’s not a fan of sharing my bed with other people.”

Cal rolls over, looking over at me across Tucker’s golden fur.

I thought our walk from the coffee shop to Emerson’s was a fluke. Pup cup induced high, but maybe it wasn’t?

“He gets along with other dogs, loves Emerson, and my brother, but…” I pause, feeling all of sudden self-conscious about discussing my history with Callum. It’s not that I think he’ll judge me, but I guess—I don’t know. Maybe I’m afraid of his reaction to knowing I’ve slept around. Saint and Chloe don’t exactly belong in the same sentence. “Probably has some asshole radar. I swear as soon as a guy steps across the threshold of my apartment, he does any of the following: growls, sits next to them and farts, or side-eyes them into oblivion.”

“Except me?”

“Except you.” Moving to sit up against my headboard, I glance down at Cal in my bed. My stomach cartwheels at the sight. He looks good. He’s oozing morning sex appeal—tanned chest, sculpted muscles, messy hair, but he also looks right wrapped in my floral sheets. “How are you feeling?”

---