First Comes Love (10 page)

“He’s perfect,” I announce.

“He’s a rhinoceros,” Gray says, and leans over to study him. He mumbles something about hoping his car will hold him.

I fall to my knees and spread out my arms to greet Boba like he’s long-lost family. A string of drool slips from his mouth and pools on the tile.

I cup his basketball-size head in my hands. “He is kind of a rhino, isn’t he? He’s just one big cuddly bear,” I say, and scratch his slimy chin.

I glance at Gray to see he’s more than slightly grossed out. I wait for him to say,
Is there an option two?
But he knows it’s my purpose in life to love everything. Especially the underdog.

I scoop up Boba’s hairy chest in my arms and press my face against his head and squeeze. I swear he squeezes back. It’s mutual love at first sight.

“Is something rotting?” Gray asks, and sniffs the air.

“That’s Boba,” the receptionist explains. “He has a skin condition. We’ve tried washing him, but it’s just his natural odor.”

“Oh,” Gray says, although it sounds more like
ew.

Boba licks every bare inch of skin on my arms, and when he runs out of arms he licks my T-shirt. The receptionist tells us they think he’s part mastiff, part pit bull.

“And part chronic salivater,” Gray observes. He watches Boba lick my face and I see him grimace.

“He’s taken with you,” the receptionist says to me.

“Yeah,” Gray agrees. “It’s so cute.”

I smile up at Gray. This is the best surprise anyone has ever given me. And in that instant, it makes me love him. Not in a heart-soaring, life-altering kind of way. It’s just real. Effortless. In the past few weeks, he’s become my best friend.

We walk outside and Boba struggles to make it twenty feet to the car. He’s panting and drooling and I stay next to his side and encourage his every step. I assure him what a good boy he is and I list all the places we’re going to take him, like Paris and the Mall of America and Madagascar.

Gray shakes his head. “You will go down in history as the easiest girl to impress.”

He opens the door, and with a boost from both of us, Boba is soon the third passenger.

“This dog is going to have a heart attack,” Gray says as he starts the car. I don’t argue this point. I turn sideways in the seat to keep an eye on Boba and murmur to him that he’ll be fine. I squeeze his paw in my hand.

“At least he’ll die in the open air,” I say. “Not in one of those nasty holding pens.”

Boba smells like a kennel, and soon the whole car reeks like dog. He whips his head back and forth. Drool flies and wads of thick spit stick to the car windows.

“Dude, Boba, not cool,” Gray yells at him.

I scold Gray. “He can’t help it,” I say. I grab a napkin and wipe a long string of spit off the dashboard, and we both crack up.

“Nice distance, Boba,” I say.

Suddenly a stench overtakes the car that’s so nauseating, my lungs threaten to shut down. I cover my nose with my hand and look out the window.

“Ugh,” I groan. “I think we’re passing a sewage treatment plant.”

Gray rolls down the windows. “That’s not what it is,” he says. “Holy hell, Boba. You’ve got some serious ass gas.”

We’re both gagging. And laughing. Gray’s car could be taped off by the authorities as an inhalation hazard zone. We pull over to the first dog spa we can find, because if we can’t fix this dog’s digestive issues, the least we can do is give him a bath. He smells like it’s been a few years.

We realize too late that Boba has a fear of climbing out of cars, so Gray lifts his blubbery mass out of the back seat and Boba thanks him by slobbering in his ear. We don’t bother to leash him up. He’s not going to waddle off anywhere.

An hour later we’re sitting outside in the shade, eating ice cream.
We treat Boba to his own cone in celebration of his tremendous achievement—walking three blocks. His new shiny coat gave him a small boost of energy. But there’s still one problem.

“Does this dog eat sulfur?” I ask, and wave my hand in the air to wave off another fart. I swear he has them set on a timer. Every five minutes there’s an impressive gust.

“Is there anything we can do about it?” Dylan wonders.

“We could take him to NASA and see if they can bottle his gas for rocket fuel,” I propose.

She nods and agrees it’s probably powerful enough.

Dylan points out a used bookstore down the street, and we walk over to browse a cart full of one-dollar books. Boba staggers along behind us. Dylan informs me we’re each going to pick out a book for the other.

It’s a simple request. I scan the titles and try to imagine what Dylan reads, comedy or drama or classics or…
How to Build Miniature Doll Houses.
That one might be random enough for her. I try to find a book on photography and then my eyes catch the perfect title. I grab it and walk inside to pay.

When I come out, I watch Boba so Dylan can go inside. After we’ve both made our purchases, we swap. I lean against the building and pull my book out of the bag. I wonder what novel it’s going to be. Maybe she found some Kurt Vonnegut. Or Ray Bradbury. I turn it over and read the title out loud.

“
The History of the Mullet.
”

“Essential reading,” Dylan says. “That haircut’s almost extinct.”

I stare at her. “Not in Alabama,” I say. “But it should be. It should be illegal.”

Dylan opens her bag and pulls out a used copy of
The Giving Tree
by Shel Silverstein. I still can’t believe I found it used. Why would anyone willingly get rid of that book? My sister gave it to me right before she died, I tell Dylan. It’s my all-time favorite.

We both admire our small treasures. She wraps her hand around my arm and we head to the car. I look over at Dylan as we drive back to the Humane Society. She’s flipping through her book.

“Did you know my life has improved about ninety-nine percent since I met you?” I tell her. And that’s not an exaggeration.

“That’s because you’re finally getting the hang of it,” she says, and I ask her what she means. “You’re not taking yourself as seriously.”

I think about this. “So, that’s the secret to happiness? Don’t take life seriously?” I ask.

“No,” she says. “Take life seriously. That you have to do. Don’t take
yourself
seriously, that’s the key. Let it all go. Don’t care for a second what people think of you. In fact, go out of your way to keep them guessing.”

We drive past a neighborhood park, and Dylan yanks on my arm and asks me to pull over. I lift Boba out of the car again and he walks about ten feet, until he finds the first spot of shade and slumps down from the overexertion. I sit down next to him and scratch his ears while Dylan investigates the park. There’s a cobblestone path that weaves around it, with a stone fountain in the middle. She studies the layout the way an artist examines a painting and then announces this would be a perfect shot for a movie ending.

“It looks like the end of a Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan film,” she decides.

“Oh,” I say, “you mean one of those original endings where they meet for the first time and realize they’ve known each other all along?”

Dylan stands next to the fountain and nods in agreement. “Let’s act it out.”

Boba rests his heavy head in my lap. “Right,” I say.

She won’t be discouraged. “We’ll call it…
Christmas Cookies in July.
”

“Sounds compelling.”

“Come on, let’s do the end scene,” she says, and stands next to the fountain.

No way. I stare back at Dylan, waiting with her arms crossed stubbornly over her chest. She’s caught on that today’s all about her, and now she’s going to milk my generosity it for all it’s worth. I glance around to make sure the park is completely abandoned before I agree to this. I stand up and walk out on the stone path. I pretend to look around for someone.

“Brinkley?” I yell. “Brinkley?!”

I hear Dylan laugh and I stare at her like I’m surprised she’s there.

“You’ve seen
You’ve Got Mail
?” she asks me, as if doubting my masculinity.

I narrow my eyes defensively. “My sister loved that movie. She made me watch it.”

“Sure, sure, whatever,” Dylan says. She stops laughing and clears her throat and goes back into character. She takes a hesitant step toward me and places a hand over her heart.

“I can’t believe it’s you,” she says. I take a step toward her. I can’t believe I’m doing this.

“Um, you look good, Meg,” I say, which sounds totally lame, but I suck at improv.

She frowns with disappointment.

“You don’t, Tom,” she says. “You have weird neck fat and your hairline is a mess and your face is all puffy. You’re aging badly.”

I take offense to this. “Hey, I have two Oscars. And how much Botox have you had, Meg? Let’s be honest. Your career’s as frozen as your face muscles. You can only do two expressions now—happy, sad, happy, sad, that’s all you’ve got.”

Dylan exaggerates a sad expression and I try not to laugh. “You know, that’s just like you. I knew I hated you, especially when you copied my bakery idea and sold Christmas cookies in July,” she says.

I shake my head. “You don’t own the rights to Christmas cookies. Besides, it isn’t personal, it’s business.”

Dylan looks around my feet. “Where’s Jonah?”

I fall out of character. “Huh?”

Dylan waves her hand in the air. “Oh, I guess you haven’t seen
Sleepless in Seattle.
”

Just when we’re about to hit the heavy make-out scene (the only reason I’m actually going through with this), a couple with a stroller wanders into the park and interrupts us. They see us holding hands next to the fountain and the woman smiles. The guy looks embarrassed for me. I wonder how much of our rehearsal they’ve witnessed. But I honestly don’t care. Maybe Dylan’s judgment-proof shield is wearing off on me.

We wave at the couple and leave the park with Boba shuffling behind us.

I look over at Dylan while we drive away. “Will you stay here forever?” I ask.

She smiles but doesn’t answer me, and suddenly her eyes turn sad because the answer is no. Reality starts to seep in and I remember that summer days never last long enough. Especially now.

***

It’s past midnight and I’m nowhere near tired.
I’m strumming my guitar in my bedroom. I’ve got some Wilco tabs set out on the stand in front of me. I’m struggling with plucking the chords because it’s almost impossible to concentrate on anything but her.

I have this huge grin stuck on my face. I’m relieved no one can see me looking so stupid. Because I can’t wipe it away. First I thought she was crazy. Now I’m crazy about her.

There’s a knock at my bedroom window. I set my guitar down and I don’t have to open up the blinds to know who it is. I walk out the sliding back door of our basement and my feet hit the dry, prickly grass. It’s warm out, and the night air feels like an oven. Dylan’s standing there under the light of the moon in shorts and a T-shirt and these really furry slippers. I’m not the only one who isn’t tired.

I grin and walk up to her.

“Do you want my phone number?” I ask. I figure it’s about time we exchange them.

Dylan shakes her head and tells me she hates talking on the phone. It’s too impersonal.

So you prefer old-fashioned stalking,
I want to say. I tell her she can knock on my window anytime she wants. I hope she makes it a habit.

Dylan looks shy. I’ve never seen her like this. She’s usually dangerously confident. I ask her what’s wrong. She looks down at the ground and fidgets with the drawstring of her shorts.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she confesses.

“Why not?” I ask.

She smiles at me. It’s this sweet, innocent smile, and it makes my heart stammer.

“You didn’t kiss me today,” she says. “And I wanted you to.”

Bells are ringing in my ears. She’s standing there waiting for me to make a move. I consider apologizing for this inexcusable mistake, but instead I save time. I close the distance between us and lean down and press my lips against hers. She smells like soap and shampoo and fresh air. She wraps her arms around me. I lift her shirt up and touch her warm skin. Oh, my God, I swear it’s velvet. Instinct takes over.

We stumble through the basement door and I manage to close it without taking my lips off hers. It’s hard to walk backwards and kiss at the same time without knocking our heads together. She’s tall but I’m taller, so I lift her up and carry her to my room. We fall down on the bed and she pulls at my shirt and I pull hers up over her head. The room is spinning.

I turn the light off and catch my trophies out of the corner of my eye and I think of all the awards I would give to her. Best Kisser. Best Lips. Best Everything.

I tell Gray I love him at Tommy’s Café.
I think it’s only appropriate to pick the most random ambiance to express my feelings. It makes for a better surprise. After commenting on the diner décor and arguing over whether a chocolate chip–bacon omelet would be disgusting or delectable, I announce:

“I love you and fried eggs and you more.”

Gray chokes on a mouthful of biscuits and gravy and has to slam a glass of water before he can speak. I pretend to ignore his choking reaction and continue to ramble on about school and classes and where I want to go to college or maybe not go to college at all, just travel for a while.

I start making a list of where I’d like to travel because I’m incapable of any inner dialogue. Gray needs me to backtrack, so he holds up his hand to cut me off.

“Wait, what did you just say?” he asks. We stare at each other for a few seconds, the word
love
volleying back and forth between us, like a mental tennis match.

He needs the confirmation. I decide to play dumb.

“About what?” I ask. I take a sip of orange juice and wait for him to be more specific, but he steps around the word as if he’s on thin ice.

“What did you say before you were talking about college?” He gives me this impatient stare. He’s acting as if I just hit him with the heaviest word in the human vocabulary. But
love
doesn’t carry that much weight to me. I’ve told lots of guys I love them. If you feel it, you say it, you spread it out. Life’s too short to let love go to waste.