Page 13 of I Will Always Love You (Maybe)

“Okay, everyone, this email comes from Brooke. The email says, ‘Hey, Ruby, I have a problem. My husband is so upset and angry over a situation, and I think he’s completely blowing it out of proportion. We’ve been watching a Netflix show together for the last six seasons, and it just came out with the final season last week when I was on a work trip. We watch together, every night. And while I was stuck in the hotel room, I watched it at night to pass the time. I wasn’t going to say anything and still watch with him. But when I got home from the convention, we go to watch it, and he noticed on my profile that it was already watched. He confronted me, and I told him the truth. He was so mad that he slept on the couch that night. Honestly, I really don’t see what the big deal is. Please tell me he’s being totally unreasonable. Sincerely, Brooke.’”

I hit pause on the recording, take a sip of coffee, and peek at Kona, who looks so uncomfortable as she sleeps in the cone. Amelia and I did this, too. Our shared streaming shows. After she was done teaching her second graders for the day, and I was done drafting whatever report was needed at work, we’d do our nightly routine—dinner, walks, maybe softball or grocery shopping, then we’d snuggle in and watch an episode or two of our show. And I would have never done what this woman who emailed me did, but the listeners love anecdotal experiences—real or fiction—so I give it to them.

“Thank you, Brooke, for your email. I mean, the choice is obvious here. This is divorce-court material. Any judge in their right mind would not even go fifty-fifty but just award one hundred percent to you for him being unreasonable,” I say with a chuckle. “But before you seek out the Harvey Specter divorce lawyer in your town—anyone catch that reference out there?—I want to offer up a tiny bit of perspective. I did this once, years ago because I learned my lesson, to Amelia. It was the final season of Suits—again, the Harvey Specter reference, people—and Amelia had left to visit her parents. Honestly, I knew it was kind of wrong, but it was Suits! The original Meghan Markle show before she became the princess or duchess or whatever, you know? It was like a year before the streaming service had the last season, and we’d waited so long and I just had to find out what happened with Harvey and Donna. So, I snuck in an episode. And a few things happened. One, I felt really shitty. I like watching shows with my wife, and I missed having that moment where we paused the show and looked at each other with wide eyes, or added our commentary, or threw a pillow at the TV when Louis did something wrong. And two, when Amelia found out, she was really, really hurt. I took something that she, we, value, and ruined it for us. Looking back on it now, I see that it was really selfish. I denied us the ability to bond…”

As I continue on, I think of Amelia, of course, but also Josie. Which is an utter surprise. Does she stream shows? Is she a horror kind of gal, or humor only? Does she like Disney, or Netflix, or does she do basic cable-style watching? I try to blink away the thoughts of Josie, as to not mess with the Amelia-energy I need in order to record, but she is simmering below the surface.

For the next two hours, I spend the rest of the episode answering a few questions, taking a break to grab more water, reviewing the sound quality halfway in between, and look again at my sweet girl on the studio floor. She’s sleeping so peacefully that I don’t want to wake her up, but I’m feeling the need for some doggie snuggles. I slide off the office chair and nuzzle up next to her, spreading my palm on her soft belly as it rises and falls.

I peek at her stitches, my poor girl, and lean in closer.

Wait. Shit. I press my hand against her leg. Oh. Oh no.

No… no… no… My heart thuds against my chest. Oh God, this is not good. I dash up from Kona, grab my phone, frantically scroll through my contact list, and hit dial.

SIX

JOSIE

I swing the stethoscope around my neck and gently close the exam door behind me, when Leo rounds the corner and juts his thumb over his shoulder toward the front desk. “Hey, can you take a call? There’s a woman on the phone freaking out and wants to talk to you.”

Colby? I quickly pull out my phone from my pocket—which is always set on silent at work as to not scare any skittish animals—and tap it on. For the last few days, we’ve had dozens of text messages, giving me a delicious lust buzz that I haven’t had in a long time. I’ve been checking my phone religiously in between patients to see if a new one popped up. But a few hours ago, we got in a rush, and I haven’t looked at my phone.

And shit… Yep, I’ve missed five calls. I rush up to the front desk and grab the clinic phone. “Hey, it’s Josie.”

“Something’s wrong with Kona,” Colby says, her voice panicked and breathless. “I was in the room and laid by her, and her leg is on fire. It’s so hot and red, and I don’t know what I should do, and I can’t bring her in there because I can’t lift her and I’m not sure if she’s in a ton of pain, or if I should put ice on it…”

“It’s okay, it’s okay. This happens sometimes post-op,” I say, using my calmest medical voice. “It probably got a little infected, which is unfortunate, but totally normal. She needs some antibiotics.”

My heart pinches, thinking of Colby alone in that place, filled with worry, pacing back and forth while trying to reach me. “I’ll have the vet write a prescription and you can come get it. We always have this kind of medication in stock, so Kona won’t have to wait.”

A moment passes before Colby speaks. “I don’t think I can leave her. I just… I don’t want to leave her.”

I am pretty sure that I have never met another human who loves their dog as much as Colby loves hers. Outside, fat fluffy flakes are falling, and the wind is picking up a few additional flurries, but the “storm watch” that the news and my social media is blowing up with seems to be just that—a watch. “I totally get it. No worries.” I flick my wrist to check the time. “I’ll be off work in an hour and will bring them to you. Does that work?”

A loud, audible sigh releases from the phone. “I really don’t know what to say. Truly. You are such a lifesaver, and obviously, since I can’t leave Kona to buy meds, I can’t leave her to buy you cupcakes, either.”

I smile and hate how much my heart is skipping with the idea of seeing Colby again so soon. It’s been three days since I’ve been to her place, and the fuel I’m getting from our text message exchanges alone is running dry, no matter how many times I make an excuse to send a message. “I don’t need cupcakes,” I say, giving Leo a little scowl, who’s darting some serious “WTF?” glances my way. “I’ll be good just knowing you guys are okay. I really don’t want to think of Kona in any pain.”

I’m not doing this, I’m not doing this. The whole insta-love thing feels so much like my MO that I’m pretty sure it’s part of my DNA at this point. I’m pretty sure if you pulled up my picture on Wikipedia it would say “serial lover” underneath it. So embarrassing. So predictable.

After being with Zoey for a decade, when we split, I dated several women and I fell hard for every single one, almost immediately. We’d sleep together, I’d think I was in love, it would be an amazing honeymoon period for a few weeks, until a sickly realization seeped into me that, yep, I did it again. I’d go through a few weeks of mourning that I’d reverted back to old behaviors, vow to take up some hobby other than the need to find love, and then find myself doing it again. Even the year I spent trying to win my ex back, I was dating and trying to fill a void.

But four months ago, I stopped, cold turkey. No more women until I figure out what it is that I’m searching for, and until I’m ready to be a partner. A good partner. Someone who is reliable and stable and has their shit together. Which I already know I do not. So, yes. I can be friends with Colby. Friends is good, healthy, wonderful even. But absolutely no more. And if my insides don’t get this message soon, I’m going to have to badger them into submission.

On the way out to Colby’s home, the wipers squeak against the falling, fluttery snow. My gym bag is next to me on the passenger seat, all prepped with the clothes I was going to wear tonight while going to a YMCA in a neighboring city to try a barre class. I was really excited for the class, but spending time with Colby and Kona sounds way more enticing.

The setting sun is beautiful, a gold-and-fuchsia stream pushing through the pine trees, casting a glittered glow on the setting snow. I crack open my window and pull in some crisp, dry air as I make my way up the windy hill.

When I pull up, Colby is outside, shoveling off snow from the patio. She scrapes off a final chunk and tosses the snow over to the side with a heavy plop, and rests the shovel against the side of the house. Christ, I am a walking cliché, but is there anything hotter than watching a beautiful woman do some outdoorsy manual labor?

And that will be the final indecent thought I allow myself for the rest of the night. Switching to friend mode… now.

“Hey, you,” I say as I step out of the car, holding a bag of supplies. “You doing okay?”

Colby nods with her mouth twisted down, and I see the worry from all the way over here. It’s the same face I saw for hours at the clinic, and to the deepest part of me, I want to hug her again and take away her fear.

“I’m just really scared for her,” she says, clapping off the snow from her gloves. “I hate seeing her like this. She can’t tell me what’s going on, I can’t reason with her. I just… I feel so helpless. It’s the absolute worst.”