Page 31 of Not Mine to Rescue

“I’ll be sure to tell my therapist.”

“You do that,” he shot back. He dropped my arm like it burned his hand.

I should apologize.

We got to the car, and I let Molly hop inside, but kept her door open so I could talk to Wombat without her getting upset. “Are you mad at me?”

He stuck his tongue against his lower lip. “I’m glad you’re seeing a therapist.”

“That wasn’t an answer, that’s an evasion.”

“I suppose it was.” He turned to watch DA sniff for a good spot to use.

I waited as long as I could to see if he’d talk to me.

He didn’t. I carefully made sure Molly wasn’t near the door before I shut it. I’d just gotten in the car and reached for my door when he stepped into the space.

“I don’t get angry at women. I get angry at myself for… well, everything. Like screwing up a great evening. Or letting you walk out my door upset.” He bit his lip as he paused before continuing. “And mostly for always being the guy who gives out the good orgasms, but never gets the girl.” He spat the last four words, then walked at least ten paces away before he stopped and stared at the night sky. His shoulders heaved once with an audibly frustrated exhale.

I really should apologize.

DA joined him. They walked into the woods in silence.

I waited a few minutes for them to return, but they didn’t.

My hands were shaking as I started the car. I breathed deeply to calm myself down. Molly set her head on the console, nudging my elbow. I petted her snout out of habit. “He’s wrong. It isn’t his fault. It’s mine. But I can’t do this. You know I can’t, right?”

I was a mess—an utter knot of neurotic grief. If I started apologizing to him, I’d be right back where I was when⁠—

No. I wasn’t going there.

The drive home was fraught with a boatload of self-talk. Some of it was pretty bitter. But I vowed I’d call my therapist in the morning. We’d have a good long discussion about guilt and shame and ownership of emotional outbursts. And anger. Especially that one. Getting insight would help, right?

When I pulled into my garage, I didn’t turn the car off right away. I had the unexplainable urge to put the car into reverse, back out and leave. Where? No clue. I’d drive until my gas ran out. Until I was too far away to know a single soul from my life here. I’d go somewhere there weren’t happy couples and babies, and⁠—

Molly whined.

I realized where we were and glimpsed the closed garage door behind us in the rear-view mirror. “Shit!” I turned off the car and flicked the opener so fresh air would flood into the space.

I wasn’t suicidal. Just distracted.

I unbuckled Molly’s clip and let her join me in the front seat. “You’re a good girl. So smart. So pretty.” My chin wobbled. Was I being foolish? Wombat had spoken similar praise to me.

And I drove away. “I should have stayed.” I should have apologized. I should try to be an adult and own up to my behavior. But I wasn’t ready for that yet.

Molly didn’t know what I was saying.

I captured her head in my hands and spoke a hard truth. “I should have stayed.”

She licked my face.

Whatever that meant.

Chapter Nine

Wombat

Walt had the social graces of a water buffalo. Not only didn’t he perform the normal niceties of saying something like, “Hello,” or ask, “How was your day?” he always opened his conversations with evisceration.