Page 40 of Fight For Me

“You don’t have to do that,” I say quickly, already dreading the thought of more one-on-one time with her.

She crosses her arms, narrowing her eyes at my sling. “I thought you weren’t allowed to drive with that thing?”

Fuck. She has me there. For the millionth time, I curse the damn injury that brought me here.

Her eyes are still narrowed, but now she’s scanning my face. “You said you weren’t going to avoid me if you lived here.”

“I’m not—”

She cuts me off. “I’m pretty sure you promised, actually. Said I wouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around you. Remember?”

“I’m not avoiding you,” I say.Lie, lie, lie.“We just spent the last hour together. But I don’t want you to feel obligated to take time out of your day. I’m the one who found the dog—that makes him my problem.”

“No way. I washed about three pounds of mud off his fur. Pretty sure that makes him both of our problems.”

I hold up my non-slinged hand. “Fine. You want to drive to the vet, that will be great. I appreciate the help.”

Her eyes sparkle with amusement. “There. That wasn’t so difficult, was it?”

She has no idea just how difficult I find this entire situation.

Alex takes the water bowl and plops down at the dog’s side on the floor. She lets him have a little more, gently scratching behind his ears. “We should give him a name.”

“A name?”

She looks up at me, eyes dancing. “Yes, Wyatt. A name. That’s the thing we use to distinguish between different beings and—”

“Okay, smart ass. I know what a name is.” I sit on the other side of the dog, careful not to let my fingers touch hers when I pet his still damp fur. “Do you really think he needs one? Chances are we’ll be taking him back to where he belongs in the next few days.”

She raises an eyebrow. “And you want to refer to him as Dog until then?”

“I guess not.” I look down at the stray, who meets my gaze with his wide brown eyes. He looks slightly less pitiful than he had before, so that’s something, I suppose.

“I’ve never named a pet before,” she says.

“Me neither. Well, not a dog. I had a cat growing up.” I give her a sheepish smile. “I named him Boba Fett. I was pretty into Star Wars.”

She laughs. “That’s awesome. I didn’t know you were a nerd.”

“Boba Fett is cool,” I tell her, narrowing my eyes. “My grandma wanted to name that cat Twinkles, so he was damn lucky I stepped in.” It takes a second for the words to register, and then a second more for that crashing realization to hit me, the one that comes up every time I go more than a few minutes without thinking about what happened.

My grandparents are gone.

“Tell me about him,” she says softly, and I don’t have to look at her face to know that she senses exactly what I’m thinking about right now. “Tell me about Boba Fett.”

I shrug my shoulders. “He was a cat. Not much to say.”

“Bullshit.”

“Alex—”

“You don’t want to think about him because that makes you think aboutthem,” she says softly. “But pushing all those memories away doesn’t help.” When I don’t say anything, she lets her fingers brush across mine over the dog’s fur. Just that one little touch both electrifies and calms me, all at the same time. “Tell me just one thing—one thing you remember about your cat that doesn’t make you sad.”

Tell me just one thing.She’d said those same words at the funeral. I remember telling her about the cinnamon rolls and how it had hurt to do it. I also remember how it loosened some of the crushing tightness in my chest to talk to her about them.

“I was always trying to get that cat to play with me,” I say through the burning pain in my throat. “Cats don’t generally make the best playmates. They kind of like to do their own thing. But I was constantly dragging him around, trying to make him my sidekick fighting the Sith lords.” Her lips twitch and I hold up a finger. “I was eight. You do not get to call me a nerd for shit I did when I was eight.”

She holds up her hands. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”