Love furever, p.2
Love Furever, page 2
I’d scoff. Taking a few hours, or even less, for a haircut shouldn’t be seen as abandoning his animals. Heck, we could get together and chat at the barber’s.
Sadly, he didn’t want to spend any time and money on himself. If it might take away from his fosters and foster fails, he wouldn’t consider it. He was lucky the overgrown look suited him so well.
The sun emerged from behind the clouds.
“There’s your vitamin D sunlight, as promised. Care to lie in it for a minute?” I hadn’t grabbed my sunglasses, but my regular glasses had anti-glare coating.
He snagged his phone from his back pocket and checked the time. “Sorry, man, I have to go.”
Drat. I’d hoped to coax him to stay so I could cook my first meal in my new house with a guest.
Still…kittens…
We rose.
Arthur was a tall man—around six feet.
I had four inches on him.
My height was always a consternation for me. I was Black and tall…therefore I must play basketball.
Ugh.
Two left feet. Or whatever expression fit. I refused to step onto the court.
Both Felicia and Martin played in college. And were damn good. Martin was a grade-school teacher now, and those kids looked up to him in more than one way.
My family included a few gentle giants.
I tried to be one of them. I held out my arms.
After a familiar slight hesitation, Arthur stepped into them. He always took a moment, as if checking the veracity of my gesture.
His indecision didn’t hurt, since I knew where it came from. Or rather, it hurt that someone had made this sweet guy so careful.
I would never push. But I liked physical contact. That was my jam. Luckily, I was surrounded by a massive family who were also big on hugs, pecks on the cheek, and slaps on the back.
Mama would never let me get away without one of those hugs where she held me against her for, like, a minute or more. She’d claim she gave us life and if she wanted affection, we owed it to her. Felicia might complain, “Enough, Mama,” but I never did.
Might’ve in my teen years, but after almost losing Uncle Donald to cancer, the importance of family’d really been driven home.
As Arthur pulled back, I grinned at him. “Now, as a homeowner, I’m ready to foster a cat. Or adopt a hamster. Or…whatever. No reptiles, though, okay? I want Whitney to visit occasionally, and you know after that snake bit her—”
“Yes, I remember.” He cocked his head. “Are you sure? Animals are a lot of responsibility. You need to be completely dedicated to them.”
“I know.” He was aware I hadn’t grown up with pets.
Too chaotic, my mother maintained.
I couldn’t have argued then, as a child, and now, as an adult, I wouldn’t argue either. I still marvelled at how she’d raised seven relatively decent human beings. But it was one more bonus of finally moving out. “I’m ready. Really.”
“Well, I don’t have anyone right now who needs a foster home, but you know that won’t last. I’ll be looking for permanent homes for the kittens, but that won’t be for another month or six weeks. Maybe more.”
“Would you like me to take the lame kitten?”
“She’s got an appointment to see Dr. Louisa at the Gaynor Beach Veterinary Clinic on Monday.” He winced. “Sometimes, even giving them all the love in the world, it’s cruel to keep going. I have to prepare myself.”
His blue eyes flashed genuine pain.
He straightened. “Even if she’s going to be okay, she’ll need extensive vet visits and a vigilant owner.”
“I can do that.” I wasn’t offended he was trying to put me off. I got it. I was only just starting to adult.
“We’ll see, okay? If another opportunity arises in the meantime, I’ll keep you in mind.”
I narrowed my eyes.
He offered his shy smile. “Seriously. You’ll be at the top of the list.”
After seeing him out, I did another pass through my house.
Compact.
Cozy.
All mine.
Well, and the bank’s. It was going to take a long time to pay off the mortgage.
I cooked a large pot of spaghetti with mushrooms and meatballs—so I’d have plenty of leftovers for the week—and settled in to watch my favorite football team kick ass. A phrase I could even say out loud, here in my very own living room.
Pretty damn sweet life.
CHAPTER 2
COLIN
As I eyed my French bulldog, Chambord, who lay placidly dozing in the passenger seat, my heart seized.
I can’t do this.
I can do this.
I have to do this.
I don’t want to do this.
The swirling thoughts in my head didn’t provide me with any new insight.
Dr. Jezebel Milson’s words resonated through my head.
Liver transplant.
When I wasn’t obsessing about the doc’s horribly chosen name—and I’d thought my parents were mean—I was replaying our conversation over and over.
Chambord snuffled in her sleep.
My heart clenched.
She was my last connection to my parents.
Although not in a good way.
After announcing I was moving as far as I could get from New York, I’d scooped up the puppy and had walked out of our Long Island estate forever.
Our butler had tossed a bag of food, two bowls, and Chambord’s bed into my trunk.
I’d had room to spare.
I’d packed almost nothing. Just clothes, a few mementoes, and some books.
When I stopped the first night, after frantically searching for a motel that accepted pets, I’d discovered her paperwork had been tossed in as well. I silently blessed the butler for his foresight.
Because as I’d cuddled with her on the motel bed, reading her medical history, I’d realized just how many chronic health problems she had.
What had my mother’s last words been?
She’s as defective as you.
Ouch.
“We’ll find a good doctor,” I’d told her that first night. “For me and for you. California, here we come.”
I’d spent the past month enduring the taunts, jeers, and horrible names. Listening to my sister wailing that her husband’s precious political career—which had yet to get off the ground—would be ruined by having a gay member of the family. And one with Hepatitis C, no less.
Graciously, I hadn’t shoved back in their faces that medical diagnoses were private. God almighty. I’d passed out at work, and my father arranged for me to see his private doctor. The man charged a fortune, and I’d never liked him. The correctness of those feelings had been confirmed when, after I shared my history with him, he turned around and told my father not only that I slept with men, but that I had Hep C. Apparently doctor-patient confidentiality meant nothing, and if I’d had the strength, I would’ve reported him for a HIPPA violation. By that point, however, I just wanted to deal with the diagnosis. With a different doctor.
Quitting my high-pressure job at Dad’s investment firm seemed the prudent thing to do. Not only because I was too exhausted to work those long hours, but because I knew my brother, the wonderful Robert Junior, had spread the word of my illness. Only my assistant Lily had helped pack up my things and given me a hug when I cleaned out my office. Everyone else gave me a wide berth.
Given I’d hated every moment of that job, I hadn’t been sorry to leave it. Leaving the family compound a month later had been the sanity-saving next step. And also what they’d wanted. For self-preservation, I’d gone.
Undoubtedly, they’d erased me from the family archives by the time I hit the New Jersey turnpike.
At first, I hadn’t known where I was going.
West.
Simple enough, right?
Yeah, so not. I drove through the headache and fatigue, farther west each day, and Googled during the ten minutes before I walked and fed Chambord and crashed each night. The needle finally landed on Gaynor Beach, California. Last stop before the ocean. I heard the place was gay-friendly.
But driving across the country while so ill and just starting new meds had strained me.
When we arrived in Gaynor Beach, I’d crashed for three days, only rousing to take the dog out to pee. The hotel bed sucked, but it was horizontal, and that was all I cared about. Chambord really needed more exercise, but luckily she was happy to hang out and cuddle, and didn’t resent me hugging her to make her stop scratching herself while I wanted to sleep. I gave her the meds the butler’d included, and they helped. Some.
Day four, I finally had the energy to think about more-permanent housing.
Although I’d made quite a bit of money over the past few years, much of it was tied up in long-term investments. Also, although I was due my share of the family trust, I didn’t believe I’d get that money. And as much as I wanted to be permanently settled, buying a house felt precarious.
I’d connected with a realtor, Liz Campbell-Waite, and asked for a rental, but she’d found me a rent-to-own property that fit my needs. I could move right in, and my willingness to pay cash would aid the sale if I wanted to buy. Yeah, having my own place would feel like a sanctuary.
She and her lawyer friend, Wynn Cavanah, were shepherding the sale through with due haste. Then she’d arranged for furniture to be delivered. It still smelled new when I walked in the door with her. Sure, maybe I should’ve gone slower, not trusted strangers, done due diligence, saved my money. But I liked Liz and Wynn at first sight, and time was not on my side. If I got screwed over later…well, I just wasn’t going to worry about that.
The house was in a decent-looking neighborhood with neat lawns, obvious signs of children, and a general sense of well-being. Still, far removed from the gated palatial estate I’d lived in the last month while recuperating at my parents’ home—a home I’d always detested. When I was growing up, it felt cold. As an adult, I saw how every detail and priceless accessory had been chosen. Not to show any personality, but to show off the wealth and opulence of the estate.
A place I was no longer welcome.
Nor was my fellow escapee.
I glanced over at her.
My pooch.
Not for long.
My chest constricted as if all the air had been sucked out. As if my heart were being crushed in my mother’s favorite flower press.
A knock on my window startled me.
I turned on the engine and rolled down the window before shutting it off.
The man leaning over had kind blue eyes. A smile I’d term shy. His hair was trimmed at the sides and pulled back into a ponytail, and his arm was inked with the coolest tattoos.
I recognized some of the symbols from my own heritage.
I’d contemplated getting inked a time or two.
Keeping in line with family expectations always kept me from doing it.
How about now?
Too dangerous.
Right.
Hep C.
Shit.
For just a fraction of a second, I’d forgotten.
Cute guy held out his hand. “I’m Arthur Bjornsson.”
I blinked.
“Call me Arthur.”
“Great.”
Chambord snuffled again in her sleep.
I shook his hand. “My name’s Colin Carruthers.” After he released my hand, I indicated my companion. “This is Chambord, named after the liqueur.” My mother’s favorite. I supposed I could change it now, but it felt like too much effort to come up with something better.
“Adorable name.”
I gave him my patented what the fuck, dude? look. The name was just so…frou-frou. Chi-chi.
So not me. Now I was a plain old Joe.
Your family’s loaded, though.
Arthur bent to look in the open window. “May I meet Chambord?”
She roused at her name. After blinking several times, she sat up, shook her hairs into place, and gazed up at me.
In my mind, she knew. Knew I was abandoning her. Knew she’d never see me again.
Which was ridiculous, because five-month-old puppies were barely house-trained, let alone capable of understanding the world around them. At least she’d travelled well. I couldn’t imagine making the drive from New York to California if she’d gotten carsick or frantic.
I opened the driver's door and eased out.
Chambord hopped to my seat, then squeezed behind me.
I grabbed for her. “She’s an escape artist.”
Arthur easily caught her and held her in his large arms. “She’s adorable.”
I winced.
“Why don’t you get her leash, and we can take a quick walk.”
I didn’t want to walk. I wanted to dump all her stuff, including her paperwork and meds and sweetness and problems, and drive away. This was torture.
Still, he was my best hope for finding her a good home, so I’d do what I could. I snagged her leash and attached it.
He gently eased her to the ground.
Immediately, she started to pull.
And choke.
Arthur stepped in front of her.
She stopped short and snuffled around his shoes, which he didn’t seem to mind.
“I’d recommend getting a harness.”
Duh.
“Sure.” I scratched my hair. “Time and energy, right?”
Arthur caught my gaze. His expression held quiet acceptance more than curiosity, which helped me keep going.
“Most days I can barely get out of bed. I’ve had her to the vet to get her ear infection taken care of, but now…” I swallowed. Finally, I couldn’t hold his gaze. “I have Hep C, which would be bad enough. I started treatment, and I understood it’d be a few months…” I swallowed again, hard. “I just saw a specialist up in LA. I was undiagnosed for years, and my liver’s toast. I need a transplant.”
The guy’s breath caught.
“Right. Shit. Sorry.” I met his gaze. “It’s just…even if I get the surgery, which is questionable, I’m facing a long recovery period. I’ll barely be able to take care of myself, let alone a sick dog. And Chambord needs a solid twenty-minute walk twice a day so she’ll, um, poop. Or else she gets uncomfortable. I have a really tough time with that much walking.” We’d figured that out on the drive across country, and it was one of the reasons I’d needed two weeks to make the trip.
“Maybe a different diet?” Arthur sounded helpful, not judgemental.
“She’s on a special allergy food so she doesn’t scratch herself raw, and most allergy foods aren’t okay for growing puppies.” The vet had emphasized that to me. “She’s a good girl, a real sweetheart.” I looked down at the cute bundle of energy prancing around Arthur’s feet. Damn, I’ll miss her, but I have to do the right thing. “She needs a dedicated owner who’ll put her needs first. Dr. Louisa at Gaynor Beach Veterinary Clinic has her records. I think—” My breath hitched. “I think Dr. Louisa considered taking her. So did the vet tech, Oscar. Such nice people.” I eyed Chambord. “But she’s a lot, and they have their hands full. They sent me to your rescue.”
“Only five months old?”
I nodded. “My family bought her when she was ten weeks old, and…I don’t think they vetted the breeder or asked for health certification. After one vet visit where she already had a bad ear infection, they tried to track the breeder down—intending to return the defective dog and get their money back—but the guy was gone.” I gazed down at her. “They’d done a big announcement on social media about the darling new puppy, so there would’ve been questions if she’d immediately been dropped off at a shelter.” I winced. “My leaving coincided with their limit of patience, though, and I was afraid if I didn’t take her, they’d dispose of her.” I chose not to repeat the defective comment they’d made about me. They’d meant both my sexual orientation and the disease ravaging me. They’d meant the poor dog who’d had three ear infections in the span of just two months and had been licking her feet raw.
“And now you need to give Chambord up?”
Yet again, I nodded. “Yeah. I need to go up to LA regularly, and I can’t leave her alone in the rental house. I suppose I should’ve looked for something closer, but I didn’t want a big city, you know? Gaynor Beach was the right size in the right location. Of course, I hadn’t realized how bad—” My voice broke and I couldn’t go on. I struggled to keep my emotions tamped down. This should’ve been easy. I’d barely had the dog two weeks. We weren’t bonded. Not really. So I’d find her a new home, and—
“Sounds like you love her, though.”
“Which means giving her up. For her sake.”
“There might be an alternative.”
I blinked several times before meeting Arthur’s gaze. The day was unusually cloudy, so I hadn’t worn sunglasses, and the light was making my eyes water. “I don’t understand…”
“What if I found someone to help you out? Who’d come and take Chambord for walks? And watch her when you go to LA for treatment?”
My head swam. “That could last months. Years, if I don’t get a transplant. Or I might die.” There, I’d said it. Admitted my greatest fear. I’d always believed I’d be brave in the face of death, but I was only thirty-two years old. I wasn’t ready to die.
You might not have a choice.
Doesn’t mean I can’t fight.
Arthur placed a comforting hand on my elbow. “I have a friend. Great guy. He’s been wanting to foster, but I think he’s a little commitment-shy, if you know what I mean. He’s never had a pet, so he’s not sure he wants all that responsibility, but he loves animals. When he comes over to my place, he’s happy to hang out with them. Okay, except the snake.”
“You have a snake?” That felt vaguely alarming to me.
“No, I had a snake. Someone abandoned one in a rental house when they took off. Landlady knew me and asked me to take care of it. Poor thing was in need of some care, which I provided. He now lives in a house not too far from here. Great family. Responsible kids.”
Responsible. Like I needed to be. “So you have a friend who likes hanging out with pets? Hardly seems fair that he’d do all the work and leave Chambord with me the rest of the time.”
