Page 34 of Healing You
“What's going on, guys?” She bent to pet them, whistling for Gatsby. Daisy pranced at her feet, running to the other end of the living room and Yvonne followed. The first thing to hit her was the smell. Vomit. “Oh, God—”
She rushed over to where Gatsby lay on the floor, her heart nearly stopping at seeing him there— unable to get up to even say hello to her. She dropped to her knees, ignoring the vomit only a couple of feet away and gave a sigh of relief when she saw his chest rise and fall with a breath. He was alive. Oh, thank God. She placed her hand on his belly, and he winced, looking up at her with soulful brown eyes. Steve had warned her about this. They were using a high dosage of the medicine this week. Even still, seeing her best friend—and yes, she wasn't ashamed to admit that this dog was one of her best friends—on the ground in so much pain was like a punch to the gut. And she wished more than anything that she could absorb some of that pain for him. Or at the very least reason with him— explain to him why it was happening and that it would get better.
That lump lodged into her throat. Only, she didn't know that it would get better. She couldn't predict that. And neither could Steve.
The other two dogs seemed to sense something wrong; where they would normally be running around like bats out of hell when she got home from work, they simply sat a few feet away, watching.
Grabbing her cell phone, she called the first person to come to mind—Steve. It rang three times with no answer. “You've reached Steven Tripp, DVM,” his voicemail message said. “If this is a medical emergency for your pet, please contact the Laconia Emergency Veterinary Practices. Otherwise, leave me a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can.”
“It's Gatsby's—he's vomiting. And... and lethargic.” Her voice cracked and she sniffled. “I'm sure it's nothing. And it's just a side effect of the chemo, but it's really scary.”
With a deep breath, she realized how crazy she must sound. It's chemo. Nausea is just part of it. Besides—what in the hell was she doing calling Steve about this? Yeah, he was her vet, but she also had Carrie and Amanda and Kyra on speed dial. How many times had she called Steve after the accident in a tearful frenzy, only to be met with no response—only to be met with his answering machine? The only reason this might be different was because Gatsby was a client. She was paying him to be responsive. And it was good that he wasn't around at the moment. She felt undone. Vulnerable. And if he was there, Yvonne was a little afraid that she may fall into his arms. She wanted to be held tonight. And not by just anyone. She wanted the familiar. She wanted Steve.
“You know what—I'm overreacting. He's probably fine. I'll—I'll watch him tonight and update you in the morning.” She hung up and dropped her forehead to the phone. Idiot.
She let the other two dogs out into the backyard for a quick pee, but Gatsby barely lifted his head when she opened the door. Giving him a bit of extra time to rest, she cleaned up the various messes, then opened the back door for him again. And again, he didn't even lift his head.
“Come on, buddy. You have to go out.” She grabbed his leash from the hook near the front door and got a tail wag in response. Just a single thump. “Yeah? You prefer a walk rather than the yard?” Thump, thump. “Okay.” She called the other two dogs back inside before helping Gatsby to his feet and clipping the leash to his collar.
His movements were slow as they strolled out the door. His normally energetic gait was replaced with a lumbering heavy step, but Yvonne didn't mind the slow stroll. They made it about half a block before his panting grew heavier and his stomach heaved as he threw up another puddle of bile.
Yvonne dropped to her knees beside him, running her hands against his ribcage until the heaves slowed down. “Okay, buddy. Let's go home, huh?”
Only, as she stood, Gatsby dropped into the grass, lying down, panting. She gave a gently tug on the leash. “C'mon, Gatsby. Home is right there.” Nothing. He just looked up at her with the most pitiful stare. That look—those sweet eyes pinged in her heart and instead of pushing him, she sat down beside him, resting her head on his rump and looking toward the sky for a few minutes.
A shadow dropped over her, the sunset backlighting a man's dark figure. “Everything okay?”
She squinted, sitting up from where she lay on Gatsby. She fully expected to see Steve. But it was off. That wasn't Steve's voice, wasn't his silhouette. “Jonah,” she said, stiffening and pushing to her feet to meet his stare.
Maybe it was the fact that he was there when she needed someone. Or maybe it was the running outfit he wore. Or the way he gave her a lazy smile, like he used to all those years ago... but she was happy to see him. Happy to have someone around for this moment and to help with her sick dog. “What are you doing out this way?”
He gestured to his gym shorts and sweaty t-shirt. “Prepping for the Maple Grove Animal Rescue 10K, of course.” He jerked a chin down at Gatsby. “What's wrong?”
“I think the chemo treatments are finally catching up to him.”
A flash of concern so quick, she may have missed it had she not known Jonah better, came and went. His gaze dropped to the puddle of vomit a foot away. “Your mom told me he was sick. I didn't realize it was so serious.” He knelt beside Gatsby and placed a hand on his neck, gently. “Can I help? Maybe carry him home for you?”
The sight of his concerned brow, his tilted frown... she couldn't even put into words how much it meant to her. She didn't care about Jonah—not that way. Not anymore. But he had been a huge part of her life. And his willingness to help right now... to care about something she loved so dearly, was just what she needed. “I would really appreciate that.”
His lips turned up, twitching into a momentary smile before he crouched beside her dog. Scooping his arms under Gatsby's hips and shoulders, he lifted, grunting quietly before curling him against his chest like a baby.
Yvonne led the way the half-block back to her home, and opening her door, Jonah walked the dog over to the large bed in the corner and very gently sat him down.
“Thank you so much, Jonah.”
“Of course.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
It was a small gesture, yes, but it brought back feelings of him controlling everything from her clothing to her hairstyles whenever they would go out. Jonah had a very specific look in mind for his future wife and he spent most of their relationship forcing her into a mold that she was never designed to fit.
Out of defiance, she pulled her hair back out from behind her ears, letting it drape into her face instead. Clearing her throat, she stepped back, leading him to her front door. She opened it, leaving only the screen door shut in front of him. Only, he didn't leave. Didn't go through that door despite the fact that she was clearly saying goodbye. “Have a good night,” she tried again. His gaze fell to her mouth and he gave a sad sigh, pushing a hand through his dark hair.
“Good night. I hope—” His voice broke momentarily before he tried again, placing a hand on her waist. “Well, I hope we can remain friends.”
She took the moment to stare at him, skeptical. Jonah wasn't friends with women. She couldn't name a single female he had as a friend that wasn't married to one of his colleagues or frat brothers from his Harvard days. “I don't know. I don't know if that's who we are. But I certainly don't want to be enemies.”
He smoothed her hair behind her ears again. “Well, I suppose that's a start.”
She lifted a brow. “It's not a start to anything. It's how it is.”
