She tilts her head back and forth, thinking, as we stop to let the dogs sniff a patch of grass. “It’s okay. I get paid no matter what, and that’s thanks to Lachlan’s own money. If it weren’t for the fact that he’s made a lot of smart money over the years, I think my position would be strictly volunteer.”
“And the volunteers?”
“They come and go, but we have four of them who are really committed. One used to play rugby with Lachlan years ago. Rennie.” Her eyes brighten as she says his name. “He’s away at the moment, but he’s always a big help.”
“Has Lachlan done any fundraising recently?” I ask.
“Well, he’s been away, but at the start of the rugby season there’s a gala…will you be here for that? It’s in a few weeks.”
My jaw clenches uneasily. “I’m not sure…”
“I was left in charge so I’m not sure if it will be as up to par as it normally is. Thankfully I had Lachlan’s mother, Jessica, to help. She’s usually the one planning these kinds of events. Lachlan would be lost without her when it comes to parties and mingling with the rich and famous.”
“What about, like, a rugby calendar?” I remember what Neil told me about the French ones.
She smirks at me. “Like have him pose nude to save the animals?”
I grin at the thought. “That wasn’t really what I had in mind, but hey, if I saw a calendar with him naked in it, I’d buy it. I wouldn’t care what the cause is. Women are really fucking simple.”
“That doesn’t weird you out, to have the world looking at your boyfriend’s goods?”
A thrill runs through me at the mere fact that she called him my boyfriend. Is he my boyfriend? I have no idea. But I’m not about to correct her. I like the sound of it.
“I wouldn’t have a problem with it. More reason to brag,” I add with a laugh.
We spend two hours taking various dogs for walks around the block and then some, until it’s time to clean up. Amara says that she’ll be back around eight p.m. with Charlotte, one of the other volunteers, to take the dogs for their last walk. I have to say, even though it seems hopeless in many ways for these dogs, they’re obviously taken care of very well. I shudder to think of how animals in other shelters are, especially the overcrowded ones back home with the high-kill rates.
When Amara drops me off at Lachlan’s, I let myself into his apartment, expecting to see a big mess inside. But both dogs have been well-behaved and Lionel jumps off the couch where he was snuggling with Emily, running over to me with big eyes and a wagging tail.
I crouch down and scratch behind his ears, unable to escape being licked all over my face.
“I’ll take you out in a few minutes,” I tell him, careful not to say the “W” word around him. He just stares at me with those big eyes, and I have to look away. If he was my dog, he would be so damn spoiled. Now I understand why Paris Hilton dragged that ugly Chihuahua everywhere.
I walk into the bedroom, taking off my shirt and putting on something new and fresh. I pick a black tank top cut low enough to show the top of my lacy push-up bra. My boobs have to look their best for him. The fact that right now, he’s at rugby practice, getting all hot and sweaty and manly, running other big men over with his sheer determination and brute strength, well, I’m half-tempted to bring my vibrator out of my half unpacked suitcase and get busy.
But instead, I decide to save what I have for him and start making myself at home. I open up his closet to see how much room he has, though it quickly turns into me snooping through his clothes.
His wardrobe is pretty much the same as I’ve seen so far, just more of it. Still, for all his money, you never really see any of it in excess. Maybe a Land Rover is pricey, and this flat sure wasn’t cheap, not in the way it’s so stunningly done up, but Lachlan pretty much lives like everyone else. He’s got a few suits, all obviously tailored to fit his extra broad shoulders, but they aren’t designer labels. His shirts and jeans are mostly from H&M or some shop I don’t recognize. I like that about him, how unpretentious he is.
Since I’m in snooping mode and apparently don’t feel all that guilty about it, I move on to the rest of the room. At first it seems like he keeps everything neat and tidy, but then you realize it’s just that he doesn’t have a lot of stuff.
I move on to the bathroom, out past the hall, the walls painted a vivid blue. I know, I know it’s wrong to creep on people, and it’s especially wrong to want to check out their medicine cabinet. But there are just some things that have me curious. Sometimes it’s the ticks that he has, the ones he probably doesn’t even notice—the clenching of his jaw, the scratching of his arms, that wild widening of his eyes like he’s about to beat down on someone, the little sounds of frustration he makes at any odd time. We all have things like this, but with him…I just want to know more in any way I can.
And to be honest, I want to know more about what I’m getting myself into. I’m just here for three weeks, but I want to know Lachlan as deeply as possible. He seems to have been through so much…but how much more is there? And how deeply do his demons have a hold on him? Are things going to change now that we’re on his turf, or was the Lachlan I saw in San Francisco the one I’m going to get?
I take in a deep breath, nervously peering over my shoulder, as if Lionel is watching and ready to tell on me, and then open the cabinet.
There’s a bar of glycerin soap still in the package. A razor blade, a beard trimmer, one of those old-fashioned looking shaving brushes. Toothbrush, mouthwash, toothpaste. Hydrocortisone cream, anti-bacterial cream, arnica cream. A packet of allergy pills, a packet of muscle relaxers. Ibuprofen. Aspirin.
Then three bottles of prescription pills.
One only has a quarter left in the bottle: Ativan.
I know that one well. It’s for anxiety. That doesn’t surprise me. A lot of people I know are on it, and Lachlan isn’t exactly the calmest dude around. I mean, when he’s intense, he owns it. It nearly takes your breath away.
The second bottle is Percocet. Pain killers. Must be for the tendon injury because the bottle is almost empty.
Then there is Fluoxetine, which I know is Prozac. My mom took hers for a long time, but this bottle has barely been touched. That’s either a good thing or a bad thing. I’ve seen how my mom is on and off the drug, and I’ve heard her complain about how it dulls not just the pain but all the joy in life too. Then again, there were times when she really needed it to get through the day.
I carefully shut the cabinet door, holding my breath, afraid that he’s going to appear in the mirror behind me, like in a thriller movie. But he doesn’t. I’m alone in the bathroom, and Lionel is whining outside the door.
It’s none of my business to ask why he might need anti-depressants, and lord knows that, given his history, or at least what little I know of it, he has more than enough reasons to warrant it. But even so, I’m terribly curious. I want to know and I want to know on his own terms. I want him to trust me enough to open up to me, to let me in and show me around. Show me his fears and the demons on his back. I want to lose myself in his beautiful darkness.
I want my love to be the thing to bring him light.
But in these passing days, in the situation we’re in, I’m not sure that’s possible. I’m not even sure if I’ll ever tell him how I truly feel, because who trusts those words from someone you barely know? It doesn’t matter how much I know it. It doesn’t matter that people fall hopelessly in love all the time, every day. I don’t know if he’ll ever see, really see, just how I feel. And the complicated part is, it’s only going to get worse as the days go on and I fall more and more under his spell.
That evening, I make myself some tea and settle down on the couch, with the comfiest, over-sized cushions ever, Lionel and Emily lying beside me. I flip aimlessly through cable channels, trying to soak up as much local Scotland flavor as I can.
When Lachlan comes home, I realize that I should have gotten off with my vibrator earlier when I had the chance. The poor man is absolutely wrecked, and even though he’s not limping, he’s walking with extra care, as if he’s been hit by a truck.