Without Merit

“What are you doing?”

I reach down and turn off the water. “Feeding Wolfgang.” My hands fumble around the faucet, but Sagan’s presence has me a nervous wreck now. I don’t notice the metal wire holding on the faucet covering until I slide my wrist across it and cut myself. “Ouch,” I say, jumping back. I turn my hand over and there’s already blood bubbling up out of the cut across my wrist.

“You okay?” He leans closer to the window screen.

“Yeah, I just cut myself. I’m fine, though. It’s superficial.”

“I’ll bring you a Band-Aid.” His curtain falls shut and I hear him walking across his bedroom.

Crap. He’s coming out here.

I close my eyes and inhale, hoping I can pretend I’m not still completely mortified. I hope he doesn’t bring up what he saw today. Surely he won’t, it was none of his business.

I wipe my wrist on my T-shirt and then walk the bowl of water to Wolfgang. I return to my spot on the ground, just as the back door opens. It’s dark out, but there’s a full moon tonight, which means I’ll have to make eye contact with him like a normal person.

Wolfgang lifts his head and he starts to growl as Sagan comes closer. I pet him on top of his head. “It’s okay, boy.” The gesture reassures Wolfgang. He nestles his head in my lap again and sighs.

When Sagan reaches us, he squats down, handing me a Band-Aid. I take it from him and open it. At least he didn’t try to apply the Band-Aid himself. He would have seen how bad I’m shaking.

“So this is the infamous Wolfgang, huh?” He reaches out to pet him and Wolfgang allows it. Never mind the fact that Wolfgang’s head is in my lap and now Sagan’s hand is touching something on my lap and what is oxygen?

“He’s a beautiful dog.” Sagan moves from a squat to a seat on the ground. He’s so close, his knee is touching mine. The contact makes it more difficult to breathe so I do my best to keep it unnoticeable. Sagan’s hand is still on Wolfgang’s head. “Is he always this subdued?”

I lift a shoulder as I secure the Band-Aid to my wrist. “He didn’t used to be. I think he’s depressed.”

“How old is he?”

I think back to the year the war began between my father and Pastor Brian. I was probably eight or nine. “He’s almost ten years old, I think.”

My answer makes Sagan sigh. “He may not have much more time in him.”

“What do you mean? Dogs live a lot longer than ten years, don’t they?”

“Some breeds do. But Labs live an average of about twelve years.”

“He’s not dying, though. He’s just in mourning.”

Sagan rubs a hand across Wolfgang’s stomach. “Feel this,” he says. He grabs one of my hands and slides it over the path his hand just took. “His stomach is swollen. Sometimes that’s a sign that they’re about to die. And with his lethargic temperament . . .”

Something gets caught in my throat. I make a sound, like a gasp and a cough mixed with disbelief. I quickly cover my mouth, but then the swelling in my throat causes tears in my eyes. Why am I sad? I’ve spent my whole life hating this dog. Why would I care if he’s dying?

“I’ll call a vet tomorrow,” Sagan says. “It wouldn’t hurt to get him checked out.”

“Do you think he’s in pain?” I ask, my voice just above a whisper. I feel a tear escape my eye and I discreetly wipe it away. Or at least my intention was to be discreet, but Sagan saw it because he’s staring way too hard.

A smile tugs at his lips. “Look at that,” he says quietly. “Merit has a heart.”

I roll my eyes at his comment and use both hands to pet Wolfgang now. “You don’t think I have a heart?”

“To be fair, you come off kind of . . . brash.”

I wasn’t expecting his honesty. It makes me laugh. “Is that your way of calling me a bitch?”

He shakes his head. “I’d never call you that.”

Sure, he’d never call me a bitch. But it doesn’t mean he’s not thinking it. Sagan just doesn’t say mean things out loud. Maybe that’s a product of how he was raised. Or maybe he’s some kind of saint. Or an angel brought to earth to test my morals.

Wolfgang rolls over and scoots closer to me. My eyes flick up to Sagan’s but when I see he’s looking at me, I immediately look back down at Wolfgang. I once again do whatever I can to find something about him to dislike.

“What are you allergic to?”

Sagan tilts his head. “Nothing,” he says, looking confused. “Why? That’s such a random question.”

“Last night in the van you said you had an allergic reaction to something you ate. And that you met Honor in the hospital.”

He nods a little, then cracks a smile. “Oh. That.” He pauses and then says. “I was lying. For Honor.”

Of course he was. That’s what good boyfriends do for their girlfriends.

“Which one was a lie? That you had an allergic reaction or that you aren’t allergic to anything?”

Sagan pulls at a piece of grass and twists it between his fingers. “I met your sister through a friend of mine. I was visiting him in the hospital.” He drops the grass. “So was she.”

I wait for him to elaborate, but once again he keeps his stories clipped and uninformative. But I take it he lied about why he was in the hospital out of guilt. He doesn’t want anyone to know that he met Honor through his dying friend, and that, from the way it appears, they’re seeing the same girl. How messed up is that?

I guess that explains the argument in Honor’s bedroom the other night. And Honor wanting to keep her visit with Sagan’s friend a secret from him.

I don’t know why, but this satisfies me. Knowing she’s seeing both of them and he’s seeing her while still somewhat being flirty with me . . . it makes me feel like the better person out of the three of us, when before I felt like the worst one.

“What happened between you and Honor?” he asks. “Seems like there’s a little animosity there.”

I laugh. “A little?”

“Has it always been that way?”

I lose my smile and shake my head, looking down at Wolfgang. “No. We used to be really close.” I think about all the times we refused to sleep unless we were in the same room. All the times we would switch clothes and try to trick our father. All the times we would talk about how lucky we were to be twins. “Do you have any brothers or sisters?” I look back up at him just in time to see him frown a bit, but the frown dissipates.

“Yeah. A little sister.”

“How old is she?”

“Seven.” His expression is stoic, which makes me wonder if he misses her and doesn’t like talking about her.

“Do you get to see her very often?”

This must be where the point of contention comes in with his family because he just inhales and leans back on his hands. “I’ve never met her, actually.”