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I only offer her an insincere smile. “I’m just going to pick up all my things. Then you won’t have to see me ever again.”
And vice versa. One more thing I owe Eli for. That list really is starting to stack high. But I decided something in the middle of the night when I wasn’t sleeping, thinking of Eli on the couch and Eli saying his vows and Eli kissing me after helping with my dress. I decided I want to be bold. To tell Eli how I actually feel and what I actually want.
The problem, again, is that I’m not good at this. I need time to figure this out. Which I guess his two weeks on the road will give me. I should be thankful, but I still just don’t want him to go.
In any case, while I figure out how to use my words, I’m going to start with actions. To match Eli’s kind thoughtfulness with my own. And I cannot wait to see his face.
CHAPTER 23
Bailey
I hopedthis would go better. It was a great plan. I could totally picture Eli’s face when he opened the box to see the squirming surprise I managed to stuff in there as he pulled into the driveway.
But that was before Doris got nervous in the box—something I should have seen coming—and managed to both poop and pee. It also looks like she rolled around in it.
Which means when Eli walks into the house, what he gets instead of a new dog in a box with a bow is me lifting a poo-smeared and urine-soaked Doris out of a box that needs to be taken outside and burned immediately.
“Is that Doris?” he asks, dropping his keys right next to the door.
I freeze as Doris starts wiggling in my arms and wagging her tail, both things sending unwanted substances around the front hallway as well as all over me.
Great. Even when I try, I suck at this surprise kindness gift-giving thing. You win, Eli. You win.
“Surprise?” I say. “And also, sorry. Doris got nervous, and now I need to go give her a bath. And I think I need a bath and maybe to do some laundry?—”
“I’ll help,” he says.
No hesitation. No concern for getting poo on his person. Just drops his bags, plucks Doris from my hands, and starts up the stairs, cooing in her ear like she’s not the canine embodiment of a portable toilet.
Is it possible to fall more in love with someone when poop is involved?
You wouldn’t think so. But as I join Eli in the upstairs bathroom and help him clean Doris up, I absolutely fall harder. Farther. Whatever. Just … all the falling.
“Look at how good you clean up, D!” Eli says, toweling her off in front of the mirror. She looks at him with adoring eyes, like she didn’t pee on his shoe just last week when we were kissing in the shelter.
Somehow, that feels like years ago.
I lean against the wall, watching Eli in the mirror as he baby-talks to Doris, who isn’tquitethe ugliest dog I’ve ever seen. Her fur is growing back, which helps, but she’s definitely more in the so-ugly-she’s-cute category. Whatever kind of mix she is, there’s pug in there somewhere. I can tell by the almost comically bulging eyes and short, snuffly snout.
“I can’t believe you got me a dog.” Eli turns his megawatt smile my way. “Gotusa dog,” he corrects and my heart shimmies happily. “I’ve always wanted a dog.”
“I know,” I say softly. “Happy wedding, hockey player. Sorry she’s a day late. I figured the timing would be better after.”
Eli’s smile falters. “I have to leave soon.”
“I know.”
“I don’t want to go,” he says, and I’m already nodding.
“I don’t want you to go.”
This moment feels huge. It feels like way more than a post-dog-bath kind of moment. More significant than any conversation that should happen in a bathroom.
And why, now that I’m thinking about it, do Eli and I have so many bathroom moments? We really need to fix this.
I don’t realize I’m rubbing my sternum until Eli’s gaze drops to my hand and he frowns. “Are you okay?”
He’s probably so used to picking up on cues from his mom that Eli legitimately thinks I’m in physical pain. How do I explain that my heart is aching at the thought of him leaving?
