The Bequest
Chapter 69—Eddy

Nothing is physically wrong with this dog.

"You can see why we called." Kevin and Jeff are hovering on the steps of the big porch, shifting from foot to foot and hopping around like they're trespassing or something. "He's listless, and he's definitely losing weight." I sigh. "But I don't think it's a medical issue."

"You mostly see large animals." Jeff frowns. "Maybe we should take him to Green River."

They're questioning my competency. That irritates me. "He did the same thing after Jed died," I remind them.

"He still ate his food though." Kevin climbs a few steps and nudges Roscoe's full bowl. "The only thing eating his food right now is ants."

"Let me have a chat with him," I say. "You two clear out." I slide down the side of the house until my butt hits the wooden slats of the porch floor.

Kevin and Jeff look at me like I just told them I'd be treating Roscoe with a séance and some lavender oil.

"Seriously, give me a minute."

They jump, but they finally leave.

I gently pull Roscoe halfway onto my lap and pet his fluffy head. His eyes don't meet mine, but I can tell he's listening. "You've had a terrible year, my friend."

He sighs.

I pat him. "First, you lost your best and most wonderful person. Jed was a jackhole to most everyone, but he loved you. For a dog, that's enough."

The guys called me out then too, but Roscoe was eating-he just wasn't doing much else. He lay by the front door all day and all night.

Until Amanda Brooks arrived.

Something about her brought him back to life. I can't even blame him for that. She did the same for me. I lean a little lower. "I liked her too, although, if you tell anyone I said that, I'll never scratch behind your ears again." Roscoe closes his eyes.

I have an idea.

I pull out my phone. I have one voicemail from Amanda, one single voicemail. I put it on speaker and press play. The audio on my cell phone isn't perfect, but her voice still floods the surrounding area, loud and clear. "Eddy." She clears her throat. "I don't really have a reason to call, except that I wanted to hear your voice. I had a surprisingly good time last night. I've been thinking about something. I know we can't show your face, and I know you were helping me make a great social media image, which I appreciate, but there's no reason that off camera we have to..." She pauses. "Ugh. I'm rambling today. Anyway, I thought you might want to, I don't know, eat something today. Or tomorrow. Whatever." And that's it.

Before I could call her back, she texted me to tell me she was gone.

The moment Roscoe hears her voice, he sits ups, his ears attentive, his eyes bright. When it stops, he stands up, looking around the porch. He races down the steps and circles the house. Three times. Then he races up the steps to my side, his eyes searching mine. His message is clear. "Where is she?"

I thought it might help, but watching his distress and obvious agitation, maybe what I did was actually mean. "I feel the same way when I listen to it," I admit.

He whines then, sharp and quick at first, and then long and low.

After a few moments, he circles the porch and then drops back down in front of the door, his head far away from me.

"It's worse this time, right?" As I say the words, I realize it's true.

When I was a teenager, all I wanted to do was sing and play. I wanted to make great music, and have fans and friends who liked it. I wanted to impress my parents, and I wanted the shiny, bright future that was shaping up around that surprising talent.

I had no idea that my own flawed nature would wreck it all.

Afterward, I wished desperately that I'd never had that glimpse in the first place. It's much better not to know what you're missing. With my parents and their miserable marriage front and center, I knew the other thing I had to avoid-dating anyone seriously and getting married. Like pursuing success with a musical career, some things are just too risky. The downside is too steep.

I never met a single person who was vibrant enough to make me reconsider my position.

Not until I met Amanda, anyway.

She's hilarious. She's optimistic in the face of misery. She's bright and spunky and when I'm with her, it feels like I'm more alive.

It was a terrible mistake to pursue that kind of joy to hope for that kind of future. I learned the lesson once, and apparently forgot it.

Now that she's gone, with nothing but a text, I'll never forget it again. "Poor Roscoe." I stroke his back. "You and I are a sorry pair, aren't we? No matter what the guys say, we both know there's nothing I can do for you. The only thing that will help you is to let go." That's probably the one thing he can't do I know I haven't been able to delete the stupid voicemail either.

I stand up and brush off my jeans. "Maybe a little bit of a distraction will help." I walk to my truck and pull out a can of dog food. I pop the top and pour it over his dry kibble. Roscoe doesn't look very excited, but he's tempted enough by the smell that he eats it.

And sometimes, that's the best-case scenario.

It's not what we wanted, but we eat our crappy food and live to see another day. "This time, boy, you and I need to remember: stay away from shiny objects. They may be exciting, but in the long run, they're bad for our health."