Page 41 of Fight For Me

I realize I’m smiling, something I never thought I would have done when telling this story. “Anyhow, for my birthday one year, my grandma made him a Boba Fett costume.”

Alex scrunches up her nose and I have to concentrate hard on petting the dog so I don’t think about how adorable it is. “He’s the guy who wears a helmet, right?”

“Yup. She sewed him this whole pleather suit that looked like his armor. Including a little helmet. It didn’t cover his face, but it did go around his ears.”

“I’m thinking the cat wasn’t a fan.”

I laugh even though my chest is aching. “You have never seen any living thing hate something as much as that cat hated the costume. He lost his shit every time I tried to put it on him. But I was stubborn and thought a Boba Fett costume was the coolest thing ever, so I kept trying. Until he took matters into his own hands.”

“Don’t you mean his own paws?” She waggles her eyebrows. “What’d he do?”

“He dragged it into his litter box one night while I was sleeping. By the time I got up, he’d used it as kitty litter. Several times.”

She smacks my arm, grinning. “Shut up.”

“I swear to God. Somehow his cat brain knew that was the best way to express his disdain for the thing—turn it into his toilet.”

Alex is laughing now. “What’d your grandma do?”

“My grandpa and I thought she’d be really sad—she spent hours on that thing. But she just laughed her head off when she saw it.” I smile at the memory of her, head thrown back, practically in tears. “She had a great sense of humor.”

We sit there for a long moment, just petting the dog between us. It occurs to me that this is the first time since the funeral that I was able to talk about her—to talk about the memories, the good things. The things I thought would hurt too much to dredge up. I want to thank Alex for that, thank her for urging me to tell her “just one thing.” But I’m afraid if I do, I won’t be able to keep myself from touching her. And touching her is the last thing I should be doing.

After a moment, she clears her throat. “Okay, so you named your cat after your favorite thing when you were a nerdy kid. That sounds like a good place to start—what’s your favorite thing now?”

You. You’re my favorite thing. Your soft hair that I’d kill to touch and the way you smile and the sound of your voice and how I feel like I can move mountains when I make you laugh. The way you get me to open up without even trying and the way you make everything seem okay when I do.

“Um, I don’t know. I still like Star Wars, I guess. Got pretty into the MCU for a while there when I was a teenager. Does this guy look like an Iron Man to you?”

She rolls her eyes. “Wyatt. Your favorite thing isn’t Iron Man.” She stares at me like I’m an idiot. “Your favorite thing is music! Playing your piano. That’s what we should name the dog.”

“What—like Rachmaninoff or something?”

She scrunches her nose again. “That’s a lot of name for a dog. But we could call him Rocky.” Now that she’s put the idea into my head, I kind of like it. From the way her eyes are gleaming with excitement, she’s having fun with this too. “Is Rachmaninoff your favorite?”

“Not so much.” I shudder. “I had to play his “Little Red Riding Hood” for sophomore year juries at Julliard. I still have nightmares.”

“Who’s your favorite then?”

I don’t hesitate. “Franz Liszt.” I look down at the docile dog, who’s head is currently resting on my knee, and laugh. “But that doesn’t really fit this guy. Most of Liszt’s stuff is nuts—super fast and chaotic and—”

“Yeah, he doesn’t really strike me as a “La Campanella” dog.”

That brings me up short. “You know Liszt?” He’s a pretty famous composer—for people who are into classical music, at least. I never would have imagined Alex being one of those people.

Her lips twitch in an almost-smile that makes my belly flutter like a preteen. “Just because I’m into fashion doesn’t mean I’m completely uncultured.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“We need something more chill for this guy,” she continues. “What about Claude, for Debussy? His stuff can be chill.”

I snort out a laugh. “Claude is a pretty ridiculous name for a dog.” I look down at him. I’m not exactly a canine expert, but if I had to guess, I’d say he’s some kind of boxer mix. Maybe beagle? Definitely a mutt. Suddenly it hits me, and I laugh.

“George.”

Her eyebrows go up. “For Gershwin?”

“Yes. Also—someday we’re going to have a conversation about how you know so much about composers.”