Page 119 of The Homewreckers
“Give me your keys.”
She handed them over and Mo took her arm and helped her out of the car.
“I can manage,” she said, scowling and jerking her arm away. “I’m fine now.”
“Well, I’m gonna walk you to your door, because that’s what good guys do,” Mo said.
“Fine.” She took one step and stumbled on a crack in the concrete sidewalk. He caught her before she could fall.
“Just how much champagne did you have?” he asked.
“I don’t know. I’m not drunk.” She yawned again. “Just so, so tired. Long day.”
When they reached her front door they could hear frantic barking from inside.
“Ribsy!” Hattie exclaimed. “Oh my God. The poor guy.”
Mo unlocked the door and she stepped inside. The dog jumped on Hattie, nearly knocking her over, barking and wagging his tail and licking her face.
“Ribsy. Oh honey, I’m so sorry.” She sank to the floor and gathered him into her arms. “Did you think I ran away from home and abandoned you?”
He ran circles around her, barking, and then stopping to lick her face.
Mo looked around the darkened living room. “Has he been inside all day?”
“No! There’s a doggie door. But he gets separation anxiety. Plus, he wants his dinner.”
“Where do you keep the dog food?” Mo asked. “I’ll feed him.” He walked into the kitchen and looked around. A plastic mat near the back door held Ribsy’s water and empty food bowl, and on the floor nearby, a ripped-open bag of dog food. Bits of kibble were scattered all over the floor.
“Looks like he found what he needed,” Mo muttered, picking up the now-empty bag. “Hey, Hattie. Where do you keep the broom?”
No answer. He walked into the living room and found Ribsy’s mistress asleep on the floor, with the dog curled up beside her.
“I should leave you right where you are,” he said. Instead, he leaned down and scooped her into his arms and deposited her on the nearby sofa. He went into the bathroom, wet a washcloth, and walked back into the living room.
Stepping over the dog, he knelt down and gently dabbed the cloth on her face, wiping away the traces of sawdust and dried sweat from her face and bare arms. “You’re a mess,” he said quietly.
Hattie stirred but didn’t open her eyes. “Huh?”
He untied her work boots and slid them off her feet.
“Thanks,” she murmured. “Sooo tired.”
He went back to the kitchen, and found the broom closet. Mo swept up the dog food, depositing some of it in Ribsy’s bowl, which he placed on the counter. He went back to the living room where Hattie was snoring again. He leaned over and tucked her hair behind her ear.
“He’s not good enough for you,” he said softly. “He should have driven you home himself, the chickenshit. He got you drunk and he should have made sure you were okay. I would never do you that way.”
Hattie stirred slightly and turned her face toward his. “Kiss me,”she mumbled. He hesitated, then dropped a kiss on her slightly parted lips.
“Mmm. Nice,” she said with a sigh.
Mo lingered for a moment, studying Hattie’s face, flushed with sleep, eyelashes still flecked with sawdust. He wondered what it would be like to wake up, every morning, to that lovely face.
Pushing the thought aside, he let himself out of the house, locking the door and depositing Hattie’s keys in a planter of ferns on the porch.
She heard the click of the key in the lock and the departing footsteps. She touched her lips. Had she dreamed that kiss? She yawned and fell back asleep.
54Alert the Media
