Page 15 of P.S. I Miss You
I promised Nick I’d do this for him. I need to find a way to make this work.
NICK: Did he hurt you?? Did something happen??
ME: No.
Sitting my phone aside, I bury my face in my hands, wondering if I overreacted, if I’m PMSing or extra irritable because of all these auditions that never seem to call me back lately, if I somehow brought this entire thing upon myself by instigating this little war … but I don’t know.
NICK: Maybe you two should hang out and get to know each other? It hasn’t even been a week. He’s a really good guy, Mel. I promise. I don’t know where this is coming from. Give him another chance. If it gets worse, let me know, okay?
ME: <3 I dock my phone on its charger before peeling out of my pajamas and into some leggings and a tank top so I can go for a run and clear my head. Maybe later I’ll see if Aerin wants to meet me for a drink so I can vent about Sutter. And about Nick. I’m not sure what planet Nick is living on these days, but the last thing I’d call Sutter is “a really good guy.” Insufferable bastard? Yes. Unbearable asshole? Hell yes. Really good guy? Nope. Nope, nope, nope. I’M TRYING TO CATCH the sports highlights on ESPN when I keep hearing this strange noise … like clanking metal and then a high-pitched yelp. A moment later, I remember Melrose has a dog. I rarely see the little guy. It’s like she keeps him locked up, like she doesn’t trust me or something. Who knows. I turn the volume up on the TV because I’m sure she’ll deal with him any second now, but a few more minutes pass. And another few. And he’s still carrying on up there, going nuts. Muting the TV, I yell, “Melrose …your dog ...” No answer. Rising, I trudge upstairs and knock on her door. Her dog stops clambering for a minute and then promptly resumes. “Melrose?” I knock again. She must be gone—must have left while I was in the shower. Ordinarily I wouldn’t barge into her room like this, but I feel like I should probably check on her dog because clearly he’s got an issue. Passing her dresser, I spot a stack of yellow Post-Its and a purple gel pen resting beside them. A collection of perfume bottles along the mirror explains the over-the-top girly smell permeating from this room at all times, and shiny makeup compacts in shades like silver and rose gold are displayed neatly in the middle. There’s a chair in the corner, the back draped in what looks like expensive dresses, and no less than seven sets of high heels rest neatly side-by-side along the wall by the closet. If Nick could see his room now. The dog—a chubby little pug—rises on his hind legs and paws at the kennel door from the inside. His water dish is overturned, making the fur on his feet damp. Reaching for the latch, I let him out, and he runs toward the door and turns to ensure that I’m following. From there he trots down the stairs and heads for the back door. I don’t speak “dog” but I’m pretty sure he needs to take a leak. “You need to go outside?” I ask. He jumps and yips and turns in a circle as he waits for me to unlock the sliding door. A second later, he bursts through the doorway and across the patio in search of the nearest tree, where he wastes no time hiking a leg. When he’s done, he sniffs around the yard, checking out a few random bushes and twigs on the ground, before returning inside. I should get him back to his kennel before she gets home. I don’t want to get my head bitten off—again. Once in one day is about all I can take. The two of us trek back upstairs and he returns to his kennel with little reluctance. Turning to leave after I fasten the latch on his cage, I stop before looking back at him. “She doesn’t need to know about this, okay?” Shaking my head when I realize I’m talking to a freaking dog, I head out of her room and close the door. My good deed for the day is done. WITH AN ARMFUL OF last week’s laundry, I make my way to the little closet off the kitchen and deposit everything at my feet as I take a look at the washer and dryer situation. A moment later, I’m loading up the washer, and when I glance through the circular door of the dryer, I find it full of a load of Sutter’s whites. Without a basket nearby, I have no choice but to carry everything to the kitchen table, only after I do that, this little voice in my head is telling me to be the bigger person and not leave it there to get wrinkled and lumpy.