Getting Schooled (Getting Some 1)

Where I give him a very thorough demonstration.

Chapter Twenty

Callie

Sometimes teachers have to learn their own lessons. Sometimes . . . we forget.

For all my bold talk to my students about the unexpected parts of life that will knock you down and steal your breath away, an unspoken part of me figures that Garrett and I are on easy street now. We’d found each other again, worked everything out, and are ready, willing, and able to build a future together.

It’s so good between us—so right, so meant to be. Subconsciously, I feel like our love will keep everything around us good too. Happy and light. Like a couple in a fairy tale . . . nothing bad ever happens to them once they get their happily ever after. They ride off into the sunset, always kissing, always smiling, immune to any darkness.

But life surprises you. It shouldn’t—we all know the rules—but when loss comes to your door, it’s always a heartbreaking surprise. The hardest lesson to learn.

The Sunday after we fly back from San Diego, Garrett and I are at his house, and the night’s like any other—unremarkable—no different than the dozens, maybe hundreds now, that we’ve shared over the last eight months. We eat dinner on the back patio, looking over the lake. We watch ESPN . . . well, Garrett watches it, while I read . . . on the couch, with my legs draped across his thighs, as he rubs and massages my calves and feet, just touching me, with Snoopy curled up between us.

Later, I take my makeup off, we brush our teeth. I climb into bed wearing one of Garrett’s T-shirts and he comes wearing nothing at all. We make love, and it’s hot and hard and beautiful at the same time. We fall asleep spooned together—Garrett’s arm around my waist, his chest against my back, his chin resting on top of my head.

And it’s all perfect . . . exactly like it’s supposed to be.

And then, a few hours later, it all goes wrong.

It starts with a sound, a crying whine, a long, high-pitched whimper—that wakes us both up, our eyes opening and finding each other’s at the same time. It’s Snoopy. Out in the living room, stretched out on the floor . . . he’s panting hard and unnaturally and he can’t stand up, his legs won’t hold him.

Oh no . . . oh no . . . please no.

Garrett swallows hard, the pain already rising in his eyes, because both of us know, something is very wrong.

I put my hand on his shoulder. “Get a blanket. I’ll get the address for the emergency vet. You hold him while I drive.”

We throw on clothes, and Garrett wraps Snoopy in a blue, fleece blanket, murmuring soothingly to him while I drive two towns over to the 24-hour animal clinic. Colleen’s taken her pets here, and so have two of Garrett’s brothers, all with good things to say about the staff and treatments.

And that’s a comfort—to know we’re not bringing Snoopy to some shyster veterinarian.

It’s a comfort Garrett’s going to need.

Because an hour later, after an ultrasound and an exam and blood work, an older, white-haired doctor with kind, weary eyes comes to talk to us. Snoopy lies on the exam table, breathing hard, but more comfortable after the sedative the doctor gave him.

The veterinarian explains that Snoopy has a large tumor in his stomach.

Garrett’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. “But he’s been fine. He’s been eating, running around, everything has been normal.”

The doctor nods. “Sometimes, especially with a dog Snoopy’s age, these things aren’t a problem . . . until they’re a problem.”

I hold Garrett’s hand. “So, we can operate, right? To remove the tumor?”

The doctor’s eyes catch and I know what he’s going to say before he does.

“I’m sorry. Surgery is not possible.”

Garrett shakes his head. “But I’ll pay for the surgery. Whatever he needs, it’s not—”

“Garrett,” the doctor says softly. “Snoopy’s eighteen years old. He won’t survive an operation.”

“I don’t . . . what are you saying?”

“I’m saying that I understand how difficult this is, but I believe the best course of action is to put Snoopy to sleep. That is the most humane thing. He won’t suffer, you’ll have time to say goodbye, and he’ll just go to sleep. It will be more peaceful than letting him expire on an operating table or endure the pain or the tumor.”

Garrett’s eyes pinch as he gazes down at Snoopy, shaking his head. “I don’t . . . I need some time to think about this.”

“Of course.”

The doctor leaves and Garrett rests his head against Snoopy’s—petting him gently, whispering to him. I wrap my arms around this amazing man I love, lay my cheek against his back . . . and we talk about it—a hard, teary-eyed conversation about possible second opinions and hope and wanting to shield Snoopy from any pain.