Chapter Fourteen

Orion made himself busy in the kitchen after he got out of the shower, and I was too close to replaying the maybe-smile in my head ten times a minute to risk going in to help him, or talk to him, or acknowledge him.

Plus, the dog needed me. Right? Everyone knows that if there's a comfy pet in your lap, you're not allowed to move. It was so weird that she suddenly existed. There she was, breathing, a living, warm creature of flesh and bone and blood and fur. Such soft fur now that it was clean. I kept reaching down to pet her.

Maybe all that stuff they say about the benefits to the nervous system from having pets was true after all. It was so calming to run my hands over her back, even though she wasn't awake enough to care.

Odd sounds were coming from the kitchen. Should I go in? Did I want to push it if things seemed basically okay?

Also, damn, I needed to work out washing my clothes. I carefully got off the couch (the dog did not move, just kind of snuffled deeper into her woolen nest) and went back to the bathroom.

Which was ... clean. The sink was no longer clogged. The surfaces had clearly been wiped down. And there was no evidence of my disgusting clothes.

I stood there considering the options, but no, there was only one: former pro footballer Orion Broderick was doing my laundry. I checked the rest of the shower just to make sure, but there was no pile of wet, poopy clothing.

Was I grateful? Annoyed? Annoyed that he'd done something for which I felt grateful?

All of the above?

I knew I was in love with Orion Broderick when he put my muddy, half-frozen, shit-stained clothes in the washing machine so I wouldn't have to deal with them, I dictated in my head, imagining the column inches spooling out across a two-page spread in Sports Now , complete with a photo of him and his perfect teeth. I'd known he could pass a ball through a group of defenders with precision accuracy to his teammate on the far side of the goal, but I hadn't known that he was a gentleman.

But no, it would be supremely foolish to fall in love with anyone, let alone this particular dude, so I would not do it. Love wasn't a thing I felt like I really had a handle on. I loved my mom in a complicated, mostly estranged way. I'd loved my dad much more viscerally, but also much more complexly. Aside from them, "love" hadn't been a concept I'd ever managed to feel comfortable with, like maybe I'd loved a couple of boyfriends? I'd had some close friends I kind of loved, to a certain degree, but then we'd all graduated and mostly lost touch.

Or, okay, I lost touch. People kept reaching out for the first year or two, but I just couldn't handle it. Especially not after what I'd done to Orion, which had not been universally acclaimed among the people who knew me well. They had understood it, to a certain degree, but the general consensus had been Why didn't you tell us you were going to do this really fucked-up thing so we could have talked you out of it?

At the time I'd been hurt. Now I was beginning to think that it was weird I'd kept it such a big secret, since I'd believed in it so much. Or was I really only trying to make my name as an investigative journalist, and damn the consequences for everyone else?

Didn't matter. Love and I weren't on speaking terms, and that was how I preferred it.

Except maybe for this dog. No harm in that. I'd only know her for another day, maybe two, and then I'd move on with my life.

I checked on the little fluff ball (still sleeping) and tentatively went into the kitchen from the living room side. "Uhh, do I need to be doing something with my gross clothes?"

"You can check to see if they're ready for the dryer." He waved a hand toward the little pantry-slash-utility room I'd seen in my initial snoop of the kitchen.

"Okay." The washer was nice, and it informed me in bright numbers that there were three minutes remaining in the wash cycle, so I spent two of those minutes standing in Orion's pantry-slash-utility room feeling like a jackass. Not long enough to really do anything else. Too long to feel at ease standing there staring at the spin cycle.

I glanced back into the kitchen and realized what I'd missed in my awkwardness. "Are you ... baking?"

He looked up, flour up to his forearms, a streak across his forehead where it looked like he'd wiped his face. "I thought it would be nice if we had bread, but I usually just make sweet stuff, so I have no idea what I'm doing."

"Oh. You don't have a recipe?"

"Usually I have an internet full of recipes. I guess I've never tried a new recipe when the connection was down."

Which made sense. I floundered for something to say and finally settled on, "That makes sense." I immediately cringed at how daft that sounded, but he didn't seem bothered.

"It's also taking a lot longer than I thought it would." He looked up. "Do you think you could put water on to boil? I don't have a lot of food, but between the pasta and the tuna, we should be fine."

"Yeah, sure." Behind me I could hear the washer cycling down, but I was already committed to a new task. I went in and found a pot, then filled it at the sink and set it on the burner I'd used before.

"The one in back is faster," he said.

I moved the pot over and lit the burner beneath it. "Lid?"

"Should be where the pot was."

It took some shifting things around, but I managed to find the correctly fitting lid and put it on the pot.

"I always set the timer so I don't forget," Orion said.

I hesitated. "Do you want me to set a timer?"

"I mean, if you want."

"I'm not really the one cooking, so it's more if you want."

This time he hesitated. "I'll set the timer."

"Okay." I fled back into the utility pantry (utilitry?) and put the washer load into the dryer. My clothes, his clothes, the clothes he'd lent me, both towels. Efficient.

That took about a minute. It was a straightforward dryer, so I could just turn it on and hit start. And then I ... braced myself before going back out to the kitchen.

But there was only a bowl covered with a tea towel. And a lot of residual flour. I was about to speak, but a quick look into the living room stopped me.

Orion was leaning over the little dog, smoothing out the fur along its head and around its ears. "Where did you come from, boo? How did you get here?" His voice was so incredibly gentle I ducked back around the kitchen wall before he saw me.

So. He wouldn't give it a calm kitchen sink bath, but he wasn't as coldhearted as he'd initially seemed after all. I started cleaning up the flour (because I was hiding in the kitchen anyway), and after a few minutes, he returned.

"Did you put the pasta in?"

"Noooo," I said, drawing out the word. "Should I have?"

"The water's boiling."

I checked the stove. "The timer hasn't gone off yet."

"But the water's boiling."

"I'm just pointing out that you wanted a timer set, so as far as I'm concerned, you're in charge of all timer-related things. Like putting in the pasta."

"But you're the one who filled the pot with water and put it on the heat. Shouldn't that make you in charge of putting in the pasta?"

I looked over at him, ready to be irritated, but he was smirking again. "I have to check on Cyclops."

"We're not calling her that, and I just did—she's fine." He paused. "My ex had a dog. Not a little one, this like beautiful golden retriever. Used to hang out all the time like she was one of the boys, sitting up on the couch, eating half a burger when we were all having burgers."

"Isn't that bad for dogs?"

"We didn't load it up with bacon and mustard or anything, just gave her half a barbecued patty. She liked it."

I could picture it, or at least I tried to. "That sounds sweet."

"Yeah. I kind of ... lost custody of her after the whole breakup. I think he ended up giving her to someone on the team, but I don't really know."

Oh. Shit. That was ... the ex-ex? Like. Was this my fault? "Uhh. Sorry again."

"Yeah. Well, she's probably happy wherever she is and not missing me at all. Anyway."

Am I the—yep. I cleared my throat. "Okay, what about Scrappy for a name?"

He dumped a box of pasta into the pot, not looking at me, but when he spoke, he'd gone back to the same tone as before. "Like as in Scrappy-Doo? Scooby's nephew or whatever?"

"Just as in she's, y'know, scrappy."

He shook his head. "Rusty?"

"She's not rusty."

"She's not a cyclops, but you were fine with that."

It was weird, bickering with someone who might still detest me. On one hand, my brain recognized both the vibe and the content as "harmless debate." On the other hand, it felt brittle, like at any second one of us might say something the other found unforgivable, and he'd never even know what it had been.

"I still like Cyclops the best. Scrappy comes in second. Or no, maybe Scraps. It's more hip."

"‘More hip,'" he repeated, and I was relatively sure he was trying not to smile.

"Yeah, you know, like her parents called her Scrappy when she was a puppy, but she's a teenager now, so she's going by Scraps. Much more grown up."

"Is it, though?"

"Yes."

He considered this while giving the pasta a stir. "What about Gizmo?"

"Gizmo?" I frowned. He couldn't mean like in Gremlins , could he?

"Yeah, there was this movie I loved as a kid, used to freak out my older brother, so I watched it constantly. Gizmo is this cute little creature who shows up and—"

"I know who Gizmo is," I interrupted. "I'm just surprised you know who Gizmo is."

"He helps defeat the gremlins. He was my favorite."

"Huh." The fact that we'd both seen the same obscure eighties movie felt a lot more meaningful than it probably should have. I didn't want to give into that feeling. At all. "I still like Cyclops best."

"Even though it's ableist?"

"I'm not convinced it is. She's not being, like, discriminated against because she's missing an eye and has a bum leg."

Orion rolled his eyes. "Yeah, but ableism doesn't reflect on the subject of the ableist language used; it reflects on the person using that language."

My jaw dropped. "Oh my god, I'm not ableist!"

"Are you sure?"

"Whatever, that's what I'm calling her." I did not exactly stomp out of the kitchen, but I was for sure trying to give my leaving of the kitchen a bit of a flounce. How dare he? And also, did he have a point? Because his argument had that really obnoxious might-have-a-point energy. Surely he was overthinking the whole thing. "Cyclops" was just a fun word, that's all. It wasn't like the dog understood the context.

Did that mean I wouldn't use it if she did? Like, would I call a friend with one eye "Cyclops" and think it was funny? Dammit.

He should not be both smart and hot. That wasn't fair. None of it was fair.

The little dog opened her eyes warily, as if she could sense my disproportionately heavy focus on her.

"Sorry," I said. "I was just wondering what your name was."

A high voice came from the kitchen: "It's Gizmo."

The dog and I exchanged a look. "We know that's you!" I called.

"My name is Gizmo."

"How's your bread coming along?"

Orion stuck his head out from around the corner and affected the least convincing innocent face I'd ever seen on man or beast. "What was that? I can't hear anything over the sound of the dryer."

I shook my head. "You're a lying liar made of lies."

I'd meant it to be silly. Ridiculous even. But the second the words were out of my mouth, I wanted to nut-punch myself again. Had he been accused of lying when I'd, y'know, nonconsensually outed him to the entire freaking universe? Fricking probably.

"Yeah. Sometimes I am." He held my gaze for a discomfiting second before going back into the kitchen.

I leaned into the dog and pressed my face against her fur. "I'm the worst," I told her.

She licked my ear supportively.

"You don't mind me calling you Cyclops, right?"

She sighed and put her head down on her paws.

Fine. I wouldn't call her Cyclops. Whatever.

I hid in the living room until dinner was ready.