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Samar crouches and receives a lick on the nose for his efforts. “My favorite sneakers are already trashed.” He smooshes his face into Dusty’s fur. “Totally worth it.”
We talk vaccinations and dog food and general puppy health, then I send my last patient and pet parent on their way. I chat with the vet tech about tomorrow’s schedule and discuss our delayed shipment of deworming meds with Claire, who is a great boss.
She’s as fastidious as me, always looking ahead, keeping a tight rein on finances and investing a portion of her earnings back into Ridgeview. Her professionalism is a reminder I need to quit this Naomi preoccupation and focus on what matters: my job, building my savings account, working toward my five-year plan.
In five years, I’ll own my own vet clinic. I’ll pay my parents back for helping me with college, buy the house I’m renting from them now. I’ll meet my future wife, someone who shares my joy of quiet nights and planning for our future.
People might call my life goals mundane or boring. For me, after the shock of E’s disappearance and the devastating robbery at college that almost had me flunking my second year, consistency and predictability have kept me grounded.
My thoughts still skitter to Naomi, as they’ve done often today, and my stomach does an unpleasant swoop. I can’t tell if it’s aguiltswoop or aworriedswoop. Or awhy can’t I ditch thoughts of my supposed enemyswoop. Whatever the cause, by the time I leave the empty clinic to drive home, I’m drained and tired.
I slide into my rental car, which smells like someone used to smoke in it, and pull onto the quiet road. The clinic is close enough to town to be easily accessible but far enough on the outskirts to draw business from Windfall’s surrounding farms. The drive along this gravel road is peaceful and relaxing. At least, it usually is.
Tonight, my headlights catch on a person sitting on the side of the road, clutching her leg as though hurt. By the time I slow down and recognize the woman’s regal bone structure, my heart punches at my ribs.
I’m parked and out the door in seconds, rushing to Naomi’s side. “Are you okay? What happened?”
My headlights are still on, illuminating the tears tracking her cheeks and the gash on her shin. “It’s nothing,” she murmurs, turning her head away from me. “I was running and tripped. Just need to walk it off.”
When Naomi James isn’t being vindictive, she’s as stubborn as a spiteful mule.
I place my hand gently on her back, and she flinches. The move guts me. She can’t stand to be this close to me, even when she needs help.
Sighing, I examine the gash. “That’s not nothing, Naomi. You need stitches. And why are you running in the dark at this hour?”
“Why I run or do anything isn’t your business.”
“It is when the road’s deserted and you’re hurt.”
A coyote howls from the nearby forest. Naomi tips up her defiant chin. “According to that sound, I’m not alone.”
Did I say stubborn as a mule? More like as infuriating as a child who refuses to admit she’s tired. “I’m sorry,” I say, upping my sarcasm to ten. “I didn’t realize you were a shape shifter and often hang out with your coyote pack. But that makes a lot of sense, considering how feral you are with me.”
“I’m not feral,” she snarls.
I rest my case. “And I don’t shake with frustration when you take eighty-nine years to order and pay for your morning coffee.”
Her lips twitch. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Oh, she definitely knows. Naomi for sure has a running list of my weak spots. It’s probably written in blood. Which means there’s only one way to convince her to accept my assistance.
“In case you were wondering, I’m exhausted and hungry, and the last thing I want to do is linger here another minute. The mere idea of lifting you into my car has me annoyed.” Because I’m not sure wrapping my arms around Naomi will help me kick thoughts of her. “So I can either leave you here and heave a huge sigh of relief when I drive away from your bloodied body, which may or may not get eaten by your coyote brethren, or you can ruin my already long day by letting me help you.”
She brushes loose gravel off the area around her bleeding cut. She picks tiny stones from her palm. When I’m on the verge of going caveman on her and tossing her into my smoke-smelling car against her will, she says a disgruntled “Fine.”
“Fine, what?”
“Fine, you can drop me off at home.”
I still want to apologize to her for our teenage misunderstanding. I also want to throttle her stubborn neck. “You need stitches, so I’ll be dropping you off at the hospital.”
Something flashes in her eyes. A hint of fear? “I can’t go there. Home is fine.”
“Jesus, Naomi. What’s the big deal? If your mother’s working tonight, you won’t even have to wait.”
Her eyes go watery. She drops her gaze. “I can’t see my mother tonight. Just drop me at home, okay?”
The vulnerability and pain in her voice is unmistakable, as is this renewed swooping of my stomach. This hollowing isn’t a guilt swoop. It’s anI hate that you’re hurtingswoop, which confuses me even more.
