Love Like Crazy Read online

  I knew he meant the dog, but something made me want to throw my arms around him and bear hug him for offering to pay for this other stranger currently in my arms.

  I must’ve stuttered in my movements for longer than he liked because he shrugged under his navy blue hoodie and pulled Herb from my hands while my feet were still locked in place, and my brain still worked to play catch up.

  “Go sit down.” He nodded toward his vacant chair.

  I did as told for some crazy reason, and heeded the direction and advice of this kid I didn’t know from Adam. But I supposed he did just offer up his own money to pay for a dog that technically wasn’t even mine. I guessed that earned him the right to tell me what to do. Plus, it wasn’t like I’d be able to figure out what it was that I needed to do on my own.

  I hadn’t been operating on all cylinders this morning. It was all instinct.

  Get out of way of truck. Pick up wounded animal. Save wounded animal. Sit down.

  Breathe.

  It took three full breaths, each one filling my lungs to capacity, then falling back out in a slow, counted exhale, before my head finally synched with my actions.

  I had completely missed first period.

  And now half of second.

  This day was getting away from me.

  And I also had a dog.

  “Herb?” a man in the same jubilant scrubs called out over the top of a metal clipboard, his steel-toe boot propping the door open to the medical offices in back. “Is there a Herb in here?”

  I glanced over to the guy with my dog, almost forgetting what I was doing posted up in this waiting area. So much for being aware of my surroundings. It was all fuzz and fog, like looking through a cup of water, beads of condensation clinging to the glass, obscuring your vision.

  “Do you want me to take him?” He leaned over the rattling hamster cage separating us. “Or do you want to?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I guess you can. I mean, if you’d like to. I’d appreciate it.”

  “You wait here,” the man/boy said, standing up without struggle as he held Herb to his chest.

  We matched in blood-speckled attire now, some morbid twinsie type of outfit. We had those dances at our school where the girl was supposed to ask the guy and then they’d buy these silly matching shirts to wear. I never went to those, but maybe this could count. I hadn’t asked him to a dance, just to hold on to my bloody dog while I stared blankly at the wall, but I didn’t imagine high school dances went much better than this, anyway.

  “Wait here,” he said once more, giving me a brief, heartfelt smile. “I’ll let you know how it goes.”

  Again, another nod. I sure wasn’t using my words well today.

  Then the boy and my dog disappeared behind the door.

  THREE

  “End of discussion, Eppie.”

  Daddy’s words were hard, just like his expression. Even though I could only see his eyes and fuzzy dark eyebrows above the folded-over flap of the newspaper, I knew exactly what shape his mouth took. It was a flat, tight line. No smiling. Daddy hardly ever smiled.

  “End of what discussion, Mark?”

  “Mama!” I spun around toward her voice. She hadn’t completely entered the house and was still in the doorway to the garage. She dropped her large purse onto the kitchen counter and bent over to remove her black high heels, one and then the other. Unlike Daddy, she had a huge smile on her face. And it was just for me, I knew it was.

  “Eppie, my sweet girl.”

  I ran to her fast, slamming into her waist as she stooped down to wrap me in her slender arms. The fabric of her suit was scratchy and it tickled my cheek. She squeezed me tight and it felt like rough whiskers against my skin. I didn’t mind, though.

  “Mama.” I looked up at her with pleading, puppy eyes. “Daddy won’t let me go to Sarah’s birthday party tonight.”

  “Because you’re not even seven, Eppie. You’re too young for a sleepover.”

  I glared at Daddy, but he couldn’t see me. His newspaper was back up again. “No, I’m not. Everyone in my class has been to a slumber party before. I’m the only one.”

  “I’m sure you’re not the only one, sweet girl.” Mama lifted my chin with her thumb and finger. She still smiled, but this one looked different because there was a laugh behind it. She shook her head as she said, “But if Daddy says no, then it’s a no.”

  “But that’s not fair!”

  “Eponine, do not raise your voice to me!” The newspaper tore from his face and Daddy slammed a fist on the end table. His glass of water tipped over and ice cubes slipped across the wooden surface. I cowered back into Mama’s chest, shielding my eyes from him. Daddy was angry, and it was my fault he was yelling like this. I’d made him so mad. “I will not argue with you about this any longer. You are a child; you don’t get to have an opinion on this. You are not going to the party.” More calmly than before, he folded the paper in his lap, deliberately creasing it like he was in slow motion. “Now, go to your room.”

  “But, Daddy—”

  “Go to your room, Eponine!”

  The tears didn’t waste any time. They flooded down my chubby cheeks and my nose also started dripping. Mama gave me one last squeeze, but nudged me forward like she wanted me to go away, too. I thought she was on my side. That hurt my feelings even more than Daddy yelling at me.

  Without looking at either of them, I stomped my way up each of the stairs, counting them as I went. There were twenty-two, and each time I planted my foot down, I made it just a little louder. Once I got to the top of the stairs, the bottoms of my feet tingled, even through my shoes.

  I didn’t slam my door, but I wanted to. Daddy would spank me if I did that, so I just shut it softly and slipped under the covers of my bed with my shoes and play clothes still on.

  I could hear Mama and Daddy talking downstairs. I knew it was about me. I kept hearing my name. Their voices were loud even though they were in the same room. Sort of shouty. They didn’t have to talk so loudly to each other.

  I pulled the quilt all the way up over my head and jammed my thumbs into my ears, humming quietly to drown out the yelling. My heartbeat was louder like this, and I tried counting its beats, just like I’d counted the stairs. It sounded like a drum. If I added my own made-up words, I couldn’t hear Mama and Daddy talking quite so much. I did this for a long time. So long that I fell asleep.

  When I woke up, there was no more yelling.

  FOUR

  Three hundred and twenty four hamster wheel rotations later and the boy and Herb were back from their visit with the veterinarian.

  “C’mon. Outside.” He motioned toward the door with the tip of his straight, thin nose. This kid sure did a lot of nodding—and even less talking—but he’d communicated more than I had, so for that I was grateful.

  I grabbed the yellow plastic handle of the cage next to me and swung it at my side as I followed him into the parking lot.

  He carried my dog with him to an old, teal and white VW campervan and fished his keys out of his worn pocket, sliding them into the lock on the back passenger side once he’d located them. It was one of those long doors that sounded unreasonably heavy based on the clunks and creaks it made as it slid open on its track.

  Herb was still dead to the world, but not actually dead. I hoped not, at least.

  The boy raised a foot to the running board and lowered Herb over the 90-degree angle of his knee, balancing him there as he slithered out of his sweatshirt, his white ribbed undershirt also slinking out with it. I’m sure he felt the instant cold, because his lungs sucked in tighter, pulling in shallower breaths that carved into his chest and ribs.

  I did the same type of breathing, but not from the cold.

  “Just got Trudy reupholstered,” he winked, making me suddenly feel like my stomach had its own heartbeat tapping away at my insides. Of course he’d named his van. Of course he’d be that kind of guy.

  This kid wasn’t necessarily built, but his lean body displa
yed the corded muscles of his chest, his abs, and his hips more definitively because he lacked that extra body weight most guys his age carried. I didn’t pin him as a swimmer or a soccer player even. Maybe someone on track. Someone who did a lot of running.

  He hugged Herb back to his body and laid his sweatshirt on the middle row backseat, smoothing out the wrinkles before he settled the dog onto its cotton surface. Then he replaced the white tank on his body. I almost wished he hadn’t.

  “Hop in,” he instructed, popping open the front passenger door. I settled the hamster cage down on the floorboards in the backseat, the space between the cushions and my passenger chair. I had to shove three empty 7-Up 2-liters out of the way and move a small, metal toolbox to the other side before it would snuggly fit in the space allowed. Despite the new improvements to his vehicle, man/boy was a bit of a slob. “I have some bad news,” he said.

  Really? I thought. Try me.

  “So,” he began once we were both secured into the space of the cab. Today was riddled with firsts for me: adopting a dog and willingly getting into a stranger’s van. Maybe I could add something exciting like bank robbery or jewelry heist to the list, just to keep things interesting.

  The boy grabbed the bill of his baseball cap and flung it onto the dashboard so it slid down to the place that met the windshield, sandwiched in the groove there. His hair fell in longer strips down to his ears. It was a disheveled cut that wasn’t quite a cut, but more a show of procrastination and priorities. He didn’t care what his hair looked like, or so it appeared, and I bet he wouldn’t even bother getting a trim until those waving brunette strands fell completely into his eyes. Even then, part of me thought he might just tuck them up under the brim of his cap. I liked that. A lot.

  “I can’t pay for your dog and the repercussions of his unfortunate incident.” He turned to face me. One hand was wrapped around the keys in the ignition, the other draped over the top curve of the steering wheel that wore one of those fuzzy alpaca covers like it was cold and needed a sweater. He had long, strong fingers and calluses on the heels of his hands. He rotated his wrist over and the engine rumbled—thunder, low and hollow, vibrating against the pavement. “His leg is broken and apparently that needs surgery. To the tune of $1200. I have $800 in my checking, which will get us close, but not quite. In the Vet’s words, that would cover opening Herb up, realigning his bone, but not stitching him back together. I don’t know about you, but I’m a terrible seamstress. Like, utterly awful.” The boy swung his gaze over his right shoulder to angle the camper out of the parking space. We both rocked forward like on a boat as he flipped the gear back into Drive. “Oh,” he added, pulling his honey eyes back to mine. “By the way, I’m Lincoln.”

  “Hi Lincoln.” I smiled. “I’m Eponine.”

  “As in the needle that kids with allergies have to carry around to keep from dying?” Even when he drove he looked at me, which made me nervous, because operating heavy machinery was kind of a full focus sort of thing.

  “You’re thinking EpiPen,” I laughed, not that I hadn’t heard that a thousand times already growing up. It just sounded different coming from his mouth, wrapped up in naiveté. It was spoken as an honest question. That was a nice change. “Eponine as in Les Mis. The girl with the loser parents who ended up with the hole in her chest.”

  A Cheshire grin spread across Lincoln’s lips. There was a thin, white scar on the tip of his chin, not one I would normally be able to notice, except for the fact that I was sitting so close to him—practically breathing him in. He smelled something like a worn, leather baseball glove and mint. Maybe an Altoid. There was a dented container of those in a cup holder in the makeshift center console. They rattled and slid in their metal house each time we turned a corner.

  “I’m Lincoln. As in the famous president who freed the slaves and ended up with a hole in his head. So not too different from Eponine, actually, since they’re both kind of holey.” His mouth tugged upward again, crinkling his eyes. “Sorry, but I don’t know a lot about Les Mis.”

  “That’s about the extent of my knowledge regarding American history, as well.”

  “Makes two of us,” he winked, keeping the vehicle dead center between the white and yellow lines that flanked us. “So...,” he hummed. I liked the sound of his voice. A rasp accompanied each syllable like it should be lower than it was, but he didn’t know how to push the tenor down far enough yet. Like someday he would have this deep, sexy adult voice crooning out of him, but for now he was just halfway there. He was nineteen. I was absolutely sure of it. “Where’s home for you, Eponine? Where are we headed?”

  I played with the inseam of my jeans, my legs tucked up underneath me in crisscross-applesauce fashion. My nail traced up and down the ridge of fabric, a methodic, senseless busying of my fingers and mind. When I was a littler version of myself, I would rub my yellow receiving blanket between my index finger and thumb, treasuring the paper-thin velvet touch as it kissed my skin. The blanket could soothe me, hug me, and wrap me up in confidence like a loved one should. That fabric had life within its threads.

  I remember the day I finally wore a hole through it. All the ceaseless friction had weakened the cotton, and in an instant, something that once provided so much comfort and calm was reduced to scraps—an oversized rag.

  The next day, I saw my mom with it in the family room. She was using it to wipe out the blood encrusted under her acrylic fingernails.

  She moved out for good that day.

  I glanced down to the jeans I now wore, and they were speckled with drying spots of a similar red liquid. I shuddered.

  “Well, I guess we’re headed to my house,” I spoke, finally. My thin voice quivered slightly, though Lincoln didn’t let on. I forced myself not to look at the blood on my pants anymore. “Not sure I’ve quite found home, yet.”

  “Oh, Eponine.” Lincoln’s voice fell like the sudden dip on a roller coaster, all reckless and raw from the surprise. “Namaste.”

  “My soul recognizes your soul,” I translated out loud for his benefit. I didn’t want him to get embarrassed in thinking I didn’t know what he meant. Plus, it was a weirdish thing for him to say.

  He smiled, not at all feeling awkward. “The spirit within me salutes the spirit within you.”

  “I’m not sure there’s a spirit within me to salute.”

  “I’m not really sure there’s one in me, either.” Lincoln shrugged. “By the way, I’m still looking for home, too.”

  We were wordless for a few minutes.

  There really was only one main road through our town, so Lincoln took it, and I didn’t have to redirect his course because my house was located just four more blocks away at the end of it, like the juncture of a T.

  “I’m up here on the left. Off Juniper.”

  He knew where that was, and like his camper had even heard me, it obeyed and turned at the next intersection.

  “I’m really sorry about Herb, Eponine.”

  Most people wouldn’t laugh about a maimed dog, but I did. Not at Herb necessarily, but at everything in the situation wrapped around him.

  The made up name. The unfathomable vet bill. The day lost in a waiting room and in a stranger’s VW bus and in thought.

  This all had to be a joke.

  “Don’t be sorry,” I explained as I shook my head, letting Lincoln in on the sordid humor. “He’s not even my dog. Herb’s not even his real name.”

  That was a shocker, I supposed. Two hands flew to Lincoln’s forehead and Trudy moved forward without anything guiding her wheel for a moment. He tugged the strands of his hair behind his ears and laughed, almost maniacally. “Of course he isn’t.”

  I waved up toward my house and Lincoln edged closer to the shallow curb. He got out first, then pulled Herb from the back, who was still unconscious and unmoving. I wasn’t one to invite a stranger into my house—just like the whole not riding in a stranger’s vehicle thing—but Lincoln wasn’t really a stranger anymore. Our non-existe
nt spirits had met or something.

  He bathed Herb in the downstairs bathtub while I made sandwiches in the kitchen with peanut butter and apricot jam from a jar with a label that said it had expired in 2011. I cut the crusts off of mine because Mom used to do that. I left them on Lincoln’s.

  When he emerged, he was wet, and walked on the tips of his toes like that would keep the water from slipping down his legs and onto our carpet. It was the first time I’d seen Herb on all fours—or threes because his right hind leg still couldn’t bear any weight—and for a moment he didn’t look like a broken creature, but an actual dog that could have passed for a beloved member in someone’s family. He was completely adorable.

  And so was Lincoln.

  “What do you want me to do with him?” Lincoln asked, running one of our pink hand towels over his scalp, front to back and then once more. Water flicked from the strands and landed on my cheek. “I can’t have pets of his size at my duplex, but I can try to help you find a place for him.”

  “I’ve found him a place.” I tossed a sandwich toward Lincoln. He seemed to both catch it and take a bite all in one swoop. “He’ll stay here.”

  “Do you know how to care for a dog?” he asked, his words glued together with the tackiness of peanut butter. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand and my eyes hovered a little too long on the bottom lip that drug across his skin.

  “Honestly, not a clue. But I feel like I owe it to him, to offer him a second chance, you know?”

  There was scrutiny in Lincoln’s eyes as he looked at me. He was studying me. Eyeing me up and down. Taking in my hair, my mouth, my eyes. His gaze fell on the ring pierced through my nose. He stopped at the small, leftover drawings illustrated on my wrists from yesterday’s English class doodlings—reading me like I was a book that had been on a shelf so long dust embossed the title on the spine. He read me as though he was the first to crack open that cover in over a decade. I felt him blowing off the pages.