Page 95 of The Love Haters

“These are just very different conditions.”

At those words, George Bailey paddled up and between us toward the ladder, and, in unison, we both pushed on his butt as he scrambled back up onto the deck and then shook the water out of his fur.

Hutch looked from the dog to me. “Why does he keep trying to jump into your arms?”

“He’s your dog, pal.”

“I’m sincerely sorry,” Hutch said.

“It’s okay,” I said—and then I noticed my suitcase floating away behind him.

Hutch turned to see it, too, and then he was off like a dolphin to retrieve it for me. “Let’s get you inside,” he said, when he got back.

“You don’t have to push me on the butt like George Bailey,” I said, pointing at him before I started up the ladder.

Hutch held up both hands and said, “I wouldn’t dare.”

I wound up showering and changing into some sweats of Hutch’s, while he loaded batches of my marina-water-soaked things into the tiniest washing machine in the world. Even over the noise of the shower water, I could hear him humming “Heart and Soul.”

In the shower, the soap stung my breastbone, and I found scratches there as thick as yarn from George Bailey’s claws. Later, I showed them to Hutch by pulling the collar of the T-shirt down and tilting my neck back.

Hutch frowned at the sight and then made me sit on a kitchen stool while he dabbed ointment on with a Q-tip—apologizing over and over.

Yes, I probably could have managed that procedure by myself in private in the bathroom. But Hutch was a professional. Plus, it was really—surprisingly—nice to be taken care of.

What can I say? I just went ahead and let it happen.

“I keep thinking about it and thinking about it,” Hutch said, standing close and dabbing along the scratch line. “What is it about you?”

No lie: that’s a heck of a thing to hear from a man as dreamy as Hutch when he’s standing six inches away and giving medical attention to your chest. “You keep thinking and thinking,” I echoed, watching his hand as he worked, “what it is about me?”

“You and this dog,” Hutch said.

Ah. Yes. The dog. I regrouped. “Maybe I remind him of someone?” I offered. “Or maybe he can sense that I’m very good at hugs?”

“Are you?” Hutch asked, not looking up.

“Of course,” I said. “I’m out of practice, but I’m good.”

WAS GETTING KNOCKEDass-over-teakettle off the side of a boat the ideal way to start a filming session?

Ordinarily, no.

But starting like this had a huge upside this time: Hutch felt so guilty and responsible, he was much nicer to me afterward.

I’d been anticipating put-upon silence, and maybe that’s what Iwould’ve gotten—if his dog hadn’t almost drowned me. But in the wake of that impromptu water rescue, I got apologies, and hot tea, and a soft T-shirt with the big lettersUSCGacross it. I got eye contact, and chitchat, and kindness. I’d been braced for a solid day of misery, and instead, it was… quietly fun. Which sparked a conspiracy theory in my head that I did not share with Hutch. Maybe George Bailey was helping me. Maybe that was the deal with this dog. Maybe he was some kind of canine yenta.

Impossible, of course. But the facts didn’t lie.

Everything we had to do in the next twenty-four hours got a lot more fun if Hutch wasn’t actively mad at me. Andeverything we had to doincluded me following him around, filming whatever it was that he did on his day off. Everyday things: folding laundry, making sandwiches, going for a run, cleaning the boat. I got all kinds of beautiful close-ups of the sandwich, the laundry tumbling in the dryer, his sneakers, the bucket of soap bubbles.

I asked if he really did two hundred push-ups every day, and he said yes, but only in the morning. I asked him if he could do some jump-roping tricks, and he obliged. I also happened to show up on a deck-washing day, so I was forced to film shirtless Hutch in his swim trunks scrubbing the deck—soap, hoses, and all.

The things we do for art.

I would apologize for objectifying him, but I didn’t have a choice. I had, at this point, an audience of one—Sullivan. Of the six minutes I had to work with, shirtless jump-roping could have as many as it wanted.

The craziest part of the day was taking George Bailey on a walk. I went with them and got wide shots of the two of them playing in the grass at a nearby park, the dog hip-height to the man beside him. Also: close-ups of George Bailey’s velvety ears, his sad eyes, and his big paws padding along the weathered wood of the docks. Oh—and a fantastic wide shot of the moment when Hutch patted his own shoulders, and George Bailey lifted up on his hind paws to rest his front ones there—and he wastaller than Hutch.

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