Page 26 of Love in Training
“Can you just be patient?” I mutter. “I need to finish typing up these notes.”
I’m almost done transcribing my harried scrawl about cheaters and socialites and pseudonyms into something legible and organized when I register a peculiar squirting sound—and seconds later, ahorrificodor. I whip my head toward the dog in time to see him squatting by my front door with a stream of liquid shit pouring out from under his tail.
I leap off my barstool, screeching. “What are you doing?Why?”
I scramble around, trying to remember where I put the leash while gagging on diarrhea fumes. If the dog is sick, Lydia’s going to kill me. But by the time I sprint out the door toward thestairs, Rufus is running alongside me, wagging his tail like we’re playing some kind of game.
There must be a front moving in because the moment we step outside, my ponytail whips into my face from an icy March wind. I huddle against the side of my building, still wearing the T-shirt and leggings I changed into at the gym this morning. There’s a thin strip of grass against the sidewalk, and I pace back and forth in front of it, watching my breath freeze in the air. The dog takes his time sniffing around in his thick fur coat, but I refuse to step back through the front door until he at least pees on a tree.
Once we make it back to my apartment, we’re hit with a stench like a neglected porta-potty on a hot day. Rufus has the gall to leap over the puddle in front of the door and stare back at it like he finds it offensive. I cross the apartment, gagging, and crank open my few operable windows, then swing the bathroom door wide and turn on the exhaust fan.
My phone rings just as I’ve dropped to my knees with a roll of paper towels. When I see Lydia on the ID, I can’t swipe to answer fast enough.
“Hey, just checking in on you and Rufus. How are things going?” Her sweet smile beams at me from the screen.
“Shit—literalshit, Lydia.” I set the phone down on the coffee table so I can resume cleanup, pausing to gag as I approach the Lake of the Runs.
“What? Caprice, are you okay?”
“No.This is the worst fucking day of my life. Please come and get the dog. I don’t want him.”
I open my trash can, dumping in at least half a roll of paper towels saturated in thick wet shit, before scraping the last of it off the floor and attacking the area with bathroom cleaner. The aforementioned animal just looks on from atop my couch carcass likeIam somehow responsible.
When I have finished scrubbing every trace of fecal material off my floor, I dump the last of the paper towels, cinch up the trash bag, and carry it toward the door. “Be right back, Lyd. Just taking out a bag of diarrhea.”
As soon as I step into the hall, Rufus starts crying and shrieking. I hesitate, thenrunfor the waste and recycle room, terrified of the damage he might be able to do in less than a minute. But as I race back toward my door, I almost smack into a guy stepping out of the elevator.
He’s sort of hunched, with nondescript baggy clothes, and he’s carrying what looks like someone’s dinner order. “Sorry,” I mutter, hurrying past him for my apartment, which sounds like it is literally screaming.
“Uh, s’cuse me,” the guy says, holding up a phone screen. I recognize the name of some meal delivery app. “Do you know where this number is?”
I peer at the address without actually moving closer. “Downstairs. You’re one floor too high.”
“Ohh, got it.” He snickers to himself like it’s funny, and something about this, and the fact that I’m alone out here with this guy sends goose flesh rising on my skin. I take a step back.
There’s a crash against my door, followed by a wail, and I don’t waste any more time getting inside. When I close it behind me and turn the deadbolt, I realize my heart is pounding.
Rufus rushes over, panting and whining as I slump against the door, inserting his cold, wet nose into my hand. The next second, however, his ears prick up—no, his whole body goes alert. He positions himself in front of the doorknob, a low growl deep in his throat.
I stare at the dog, staring at the door.
“Caprice?” Lydia’s voice sounds tinny and small from across the room. I walk over to retrieve the phone still lying on my coffee table. Rufus maintains his stance in front of my apartmentdoor, and for the first time all day, I don’t mind that he’s here. At all.
I hold the camera up to my face as I walk into the kitchen, wincing at my disheveled appearance. I set the phone by the sink where Lydia can see me, and pump soap all over my hands. Rufus is no longer growling, but he doesn’t move from his position by the door.
Silently, reluctantly, I allow that my brother might have had a point about Kyle’s dog.
When I shut off the faucet, Lydia clears her throat and raises her brows. “So... you forgot to walk him?”
CHAPTER
EIGHT
When I wake Sunday,there’s a strong, solid body against mine and warm breath on my neck. I leap out of bed so fast, I almost pull a hamstring. Rufus raises his head off my pillow like I’ve disturbed his beauty rest.
“Dog. This ismybed.”
His head tilts at my words and he stretches, black-tipped tail slapping the bedding.
