Page 22

22

JP

“Isn’t he housebroken?” Everly asks.

“Of course he is!” Wait, I’m shouting at her. I don’t need to shout at her. “He must just be confused because this is a different place. This tree is real. Mine is fake.”

I drag him away by the collar. Chelsea rushes up with a roll of paper towels, which I take from her. She doesn’t have to clean up my dog’s messes.

Wait. He’s not my dog.

Whatever.

Chelsea stares at the tree, now dark. “Oh dear.” She bites her lip, gathering up the wet tree-skirt.

The tree is a masterpiece of design, wound with shimmery silver ribbons, laden with gold and silver ornaments, flowers and feathers. Without the million little white lights, and a wisp of smoke drifting around it, it still looks nice, but . . . “Sorry,” I mutter.

“Not your fault.” She pats my arm. I appreciate her manners. She probably wants to stab me and kick Byron outside.

After I clean up the mess, I sit in a chair in the corner of the room, still gripping Byron’s collar. He sits happily on the floor, leaning against my legs. Hard to be mad at the guy.

“Well, it’s not Christmas unless something bad happens,” Everly says. She turns to her brothers, Noah, Asher, and Harrison. “Remember the year you guys snuck into my room and stole my training bras and panties and hung them on the tree?”

They all laugh. “Yeah, that was good.”

“You weren’t laughing when I hung your tighty whities there too.”

“That was an unusual tree,” Chelsea says, smiling. “I laughed so hard.”

“Then there was the year I tried a new potato recipe,” Mom says. “Théo refused to eat it. He was so upset that it wasn’t just plain mashed potatoes, he had a temper tantrum and locked himself in his bedroom. We ate Christmas dinner without him.”

Lacey cracks up at that, leaning into Théo. “He really doesn’t like changes to his routine.”

Mom laughs too. “No, he does not.”

Théo rolls his eyes. He knows it’s true.

Everly brings me another drink and takes a seat in the armchair near me. “Try this.”

“Eggnog?”

She nods. “With a kick.”

I take a sip. “Whoa! That’s good.”

“It’s the Kraken.”

“Huh.” I swallow more. “Never been a huge fan of eggnog, but this is goddamn delicious.”

She’s got one of her own. “We’re going to need a lot of this.”

She’s not wrong. We toast each other.

There are multiple conversations going on around us, including as usual an argument between Dad, Uncle Mark, and Grandpa. But at least it’s about hockey, not over money and theft and lawsuits.

First they’re comparing points. The Golden Eagles are ahead in the standings, but the Condors are doing surprisingly well this season. Then they move on to arguing about goalie interference challenges.

“There should be a two-minute delay-of-game penalty for an incorrect challenge,” Grandpa says. “There are too many of those.”

“I don’t like the idea,” Uncle Mark says.

Théo speaks up. “Coaches are using it incorrectly.”

“Is your coach?” Uncle Mark demands.

Théo grins. “No.”

“It’s supposed to be used when the refs completely blow a call,” Dad puts in. “But when it’s close, they challenge it for other reasons, and that has to stop.”

I reach down to pat Byron, and discover he’s gone.

Shit.

I jump up and sweep the room with my gaze. Then I spot him . . . in the dining room, paws up on the sideboard where Chelsea laid out a bunch of appetizers and goodies. He’s scarfing down . . . something.

I shoot across the room, shouting, “Byron! No!”

All heads turn to follow me. I skid to a stop and survey the empty box of chocolates on the floor, then the nearly clean antipasto platter on the table. Except for the black olives. He turned his nose up at the olives.

“Oh sweet Jesus.” Memory of Taylor warning me about how he likes to eat strange things slams me. I groan.

“Oh mon Dieu,” Mom says delicately from behind me, setting her fingers over her mouth.

“Chocolate is bad for dogs!” Jackie says. “It can kill them!”

I close my eyes. I think this is true.

I gaze in horror at Byron, whose head is down in shame. He walks his paws out in front of him slowly, lowering himself to the floor. Jesus hopscotching Christ. Have I killed Taylor’s dog?

I drop to a crouch in front of him and rub his ears. “It’s okay, buddy. Sorry I yelled. Are you okay?”

He turns big brown eyes up to me. I look up at the others. “Should I take him to the vet?”

“It’s Christmas Day. I’m sure vets aren’t open,” Mom says fretfully. She crouches and runs a hand over Byron’s head.

“There must be an emergency hospital for animals or something.” Shit. I have no idea what to do. My heart races, pulsing in my ears. My hands go clammy.

Everyone is gathered around now, all wearing expressions of dismay.

Christ. Taylor’s going to kill me. Literally. If something happens to her beloved dog on my watch, she’ll never forgive me. Why the fuck did I offer to do this? I should have known! I can’t be counted on for anything. “Stay alive, buddy. Please. Stay alive.” I know it’s stupid, but I can’t help it—I have to talk to him.

Everly takes charge, grabbing her phone and pulling up Google. “Okay, there’s an emergency animal hospital not far from here. Should I call?”

“Yeah!”

She makes the call and explains the situation.

“How much does he weigh?” she asks me, lowering her phone.

“I have no idea!”

“Lift him up,” Asher says helpfully.

“Christ.” I pick up Byron. “He’s heavy.”

“I have my bathroom scale.” Chelsea scurries away and returns with the scale.

I try to set Byron on the device, but he’s not having it. So I pick him up again and step on with both of us. “I can’t see it,” I say, my arms full of dog. “What is it, Ash?”

“Two . . . seventy?”

“How much do you weigh?” Everly demands.

“Two-oh-six.”

Ash snorts.

“What? Close enough.”

“He’s sixty-four pounds,” Everly says into the phone. She listens, then lowers the phone again. “How much chocolate did he eat?”

Harrison grabs the mangled box. “This is . . . ten ounces.”

Everly relays this through the phone, but there are more questions. “What kind of chocolate? Dark? Milk?”

“Jesus! It’s chocolate!” I’m sweating and losing patience.

Mom pats my arm. “Calme-toi.”

“It was different kinds,” Chelsea answers. “From La Rochelle.” She names an expensive chocolate place. “Never mind, that doesn’t matter. It has dark, milk chocolate, and white chocolate.”

Everly listens, nodding. “Okay. No, he seems okay right now.”

At that moment Byron starts making disgusting noises. We all stare at him helplessly as he heaves and retches and heaves and eventually horks up a repulsive mass of food all over Chelsea’s expensive Kashmir carpet.

“Oh, he just vomited,” Everly says calmly into her phone.

Harrison makes a gagging noise and bolts.

Everly’s listening, nodding and pacing. “Okay, thank you,” she finally says and ends the call. “Okay, they said for his weight and with it not all being dark chocolate, he should be okay, especially if he just vomited. That’s what they would get him to do if we took him in. So they said to keep an eye on him. He could also have diarrhea?—”

“Great,” I mutter.

“He could also pee a lot and seem restless,” she adds. “If he has tremors or a seizure or an elevated heart rate, you need to take him in right away.”

I feel around and find Byron’s heartbeat. Christ, I don’t know how fast a dog’s heart is supposed to be.

Chelsea arrives with more paper towels, and once again I clean up a mess. I have to admit I’m feeling like Harrison, my stomach roiling. I keep swallowing as I clean the carpet. Man, what a wuss I am.

“I’ll pay to have the rug cleaned professionally,” I tell Chelsea.

“Don’t be silly. It’s fine.”

“I think I’m going to take him home.” I check out Byron. He doesn’t look as happy as he did earlier. “No fun being sick, huh, buddy?”

“But we haven’t eaten!” Chelsea protests.

“I know. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have brought him. It’s been a disaster.”

Her lips twitch. “I’ve learned to expect that.”

I share a wan smile with her. Chelsea is . . . okay.

“I’ll make you a plate,” she says. “Dinner’s ready. You can heat it up at home.”

“That would be great.”

A few minutes later, she hands me a huge platter piled with turkey and dressing, potatoes and veggies, tightly wrapped in plastic. I know Byron’s not feeling well, because he shows no interest in it whatsoever.

I keep an eye on him as I drive home. He’s lethargic, rather than restless. So is that okay? Or is that worse?

When I get home, I take him for a short walk, then give him fresh water in the kitchen. I grab my phone to google “dog eats chocolate” and scroll through several results. It’s all pretty much what Everly said.

I sit beside Byron on the couch and stroke his back. “Sorry, dude. This is my fault. You don’t know any better.”

What the hell am I going to tell Taylor? He’d better be okay when she gets back tomorrow. My imagination runs wild, picturing telling her that Byron’s dead and I killed him. I almost feel like puking again, thinking about that. It would be the worst thing that could happen to her, and after her parents splitting up and having to move out, she sure as hell doesn’t need any more bad news.

This is what she gets for hanging around with me.