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His mouth nudges into his sexy grin.
"What's that?"
"The shower--it has a great shower. Specifically, the floor of the shower . . . it's super comfy to kneel on."
I slide my palm to his crotch and stroke his big, thickening cock through his soft, black dress pants. And I run my tongue up his neck slowly, licking over his stubble to his jaw--so he has no doubt what I'm thinking about doing to him.
"Want me to show you?"
"Yes, please," he practically squeaks. I've never heard Garrett squeak--it's hot.
Then he grabs me, caveman style, and throws me over his shoulder, smacking my ass as he carries me down the hall to the bathroom.
Where I give him a very thorough demonstration.
Chapter Twenty
Callie
Sometimes teachers have to learn their own lessons. Sometimes . . . we forget.
For all my bold talk to my students about the unexpected parts of life that will knock you down and steal your breath away, an unspoken part of me figures that Garrett and I are on easy street now. We'd found each other again, worked everything out, and are ready, willing, and able to build a future together.
It's so good between us--so right, so meant to be. Subconsciously, I feel like our love will keep everything around us good too. Happy and light. Like a couple in a fairy tale . . . nothing bad ever happens to them once they get their happily ever after. They ride off into the sunset, always kissing, always smiling, immune to any darkness.
But life surprises you. It shouldn't--we all know the rules--but when loss comes to your door, it's always a heartbreaking surprise. The hardest lesson to learn.
The Sunday after we fly back from San Diego, Garrett and I are at his house, and the night's like any other--unremarkable--no different than the dozens, maybe hundreds now, that we've shared over the last eight months. We eat dinner on the back patio, looking over the lake. We watch ESPN . . . well, Garrett watches it, while I read . . . on the couch, with my legs draped across his thighs, as he rubs and massages my calves and feet, just touching me, with Snoopy curled up between us.
Later, I take my makeup off, we brush our teeth. I climb into bed wearing one of Garrett's T-shirts and he comes wearing nothing at all. We make love, and it's hot and hard and beautiful at the same time. We fall asleep spooned together--Garrett's arm around my waist, his chest against my back, his chin resting on top of my head.
And it's all perfect . . . exactly like it's supposed to be.
And then, a few hours later, it all goes wrong.
It starts with a sound, a crying whine, a long, high-pitched whimper--that wakes us both up, our eyes opening and finding each other's at the same time. It's Snoopy. Out in the living room, stretched out on the floor . . . he's panting hard and unnaturally and he can't stand up, his legs won't hold him.
Oh no . . . oh no . . . please no.
Garrett swallows hard, the pain already rising in his eyes, because both of us know, something is very wrong.
I put my hand on his shoulder. "Get a blanket. I'll get the address for the emergency vet. You hold him while I drive."
We throw on clothes, and Garrett wraps Snoopy in a blue, fleece blanket, murmuring soothingly to him while I drive two towns over to the 24-hour animal clinic. Colleen's taken her pets here, and so have two of Garrett's brothers, all with good things to say about the staff and treatments.
And that's a comfort--to know we're not bringing Snoopy to some shyster veterinarian.
It's a comfort Garrett's going to need.
Because an hour later, after an ultrasound and an exam and blood work, an older, white-haired doctor with kind, weary eyes comes to talk to us. Snoopy lies on the exam table, breathing hard, but more comfortable after the sedative the doctor gave him.
The veterinarian explains that Snoopy has a large tumor in his stomach.
Garrett's brow furrows and he shakes his head. "But he's been fine. He's been eating, running around, everything has been normal."
The doctor nods. "Sometimes, especially with a dog Snoopy's age, these things aren't a problem . . . until they're a problem."
I hold Garrett's hand. "So, we can operate, right? To remove the tumor?"
The doctor's eyes catch and I know what he's going to say before he does.
"I'm sorry. Surgery is not possible."
Garrett shakes his head. "But I'll pay for the surgery. Whatever he needs, it's not--"
"Garrett," the doctor says softly. "Snoopy's eighteen years old. He won't survive an operation."
"I don't . . . what are you saying?"
"I'm saying that I understand how difficult this is, but I believe the best course of action is to put Snoopy to sleep. That is the most humane thing. He won't suffer, you'll have time to say goodbye, and he'll just go to sleep. It will be more peaceful than letting him expire on an operating table or endure the pain or the tumor."
Garrett's eyes pinch as he gazes down at Snoopy, shaking his head. "I don't . . . I need some time to think about this."
"Of course."
The doctor leaves and Garrett rests his head against Snoopy's--petting him gently, whispering to him. I wrap my arms around this amazing man I love, lay my cheek against his back . . . and we talk about it--a hard, teary-eyed conversation about possible second opinions and hope and wanting to shield Snoopy from any pain.
When you're an adult, you're supposed to know how to handle things like this. Pets get old--people get old--and eventually, everything dies. It's a brutal, basic part of life. As a grown-up you understand that, recognize it, accept it . . . but that doesn't mean, for a single second, that it doesn't still hurt.
And God, does it hurt. Like your heart is being torn out from your chest.
"Can I hold him?" Garrett asks, in a ravaged voice, when the vet comes back in.
He nods and drags a cushioned chair out from the corner, closer to the table, and nods to Garrett. So gently, Garrett lifts Snoopy in his arms and Garrett sits down in the chair. Snoopy pants hard and lets out a weak whine.
"It's okay, it's okay, buddy," Garrett soothes in a sure, steady voice. Gently, he strokes Snoopy's white fur. "You're gonna be okay . . . it's not gonna hurt anymore, I promise."
I try to hold it together. I try to be strong. But I can't stop the flood of tears that fill my eyes and flow down my cheeks. Because there's nothing harder than watching someone you love in pain and knowing you can't take it away. You can't make it better, no matter how much you want to. I sit on the arm of the chair, squeezed up next to Garrett. I put my hands on his shoulders, his arms, loving him, holding him.
"You're such a good boy, Snoopy. I love you so much. You're such a good boy." Gentle and steady, Garrett's hand slides down Snoopy's back, calm and soothing. The sweet boy dips his snout and presses his nose against the crook of Garrett's arm, his eyes closing.
Garrett's throat sounds tight, clogged with wetness as he talks to the puppy who's been
with him for half his life.
"Remember when you found that dead skunk and you left it under my bed, as a present for me and Callie? Good times. Remember all those summers in the boat on the lake--you and me together. Remember . . . remember when Tim snuck you into the hospital after I hurt my knee? You stayed with me, under those blankets, you wouldn't leave my side." Garrett inhales, his voice trembling . . . then breaking. "You're my best friend. Thank you for always being there when I needed you--every time."
From the corner of my eyes, I see the doctor move around. He puts the tip of a syringe into the IV connected to Snoopy's leg, then slowly injects a thick, white liquid. I press my face to Garrett's neck, and hold him tight.
"You're gonna sleep now, Snoop, you're gonna rest," Garrett soothes, his voice rhythmic. "And when you wake up, you're gonna be healthy and happy--running through sunshine and chasing the geese. And there won't be any pain. It's okay, my good boy. I love you. It's okay . . ."
I watch Snoopy's midsection expand and contract with each of his breaths. It rises and falls. Again, and again.
Until it doesn't. Until it stops.
And the best dog in the whole world goes quiet and still.
Garrett lets out a soft groaning whimper and gathers Snoopy closer, hiding his face in the downy white of Snoopy's fur. His shoulders shake and his back shudders. I wrap my arms around him, enfolding him in my embrace, squeezing and clasping him to me. I kiss his hair and rest my forehead against his neck, and I sob.
Together, we both do.
~
A few hours later, we walk into Garrett's house. He lays Snoopy's collar on the hook next to the door, smoothing it reverently over the dark-blue leash that hangs there, below the metal plate etched with Snoopy's name. Our movements are heavy, weighted and slow. Mournful.
I don't let go of Garrett's hand or arm. I don't stop touching him. As deep and wrenching as my own sadness is, I know his is a hundred times more. Silently, we walk to the bedroom. Garrett sits on the edge of the bed, his feet braced on the floor. I unbutton his shirt and strip it from his arms. I skim the white cotton shirt beneath it up his torso and over his head. I unbutton his jeans and slide them down his legs, leaving him bare except for black boxer briefs.
