Every Little Thing

47

|| Evelyn ||

warning: sensitive material ahead

The first thing I establish the next morning is that my dog's name is Scout. The second is the fact that Scout makes an absolute mess of anything he comes in contact with.

"Reed is going to kill me," I mutter under my breath, frantically gathering stuffing in my arms as the puppy watches me, tail wagging in excitement. What used to be an ornate throw pillow is now torn to shreds, and I bite my lip as I try to rearrange the pieces into a somewhat-salvageable shape.

"This is your fault, you know," I tell Scout, rummaging through cupboards in order to find a sewing kit, or anything that might help me fix the tarnished pillow and the newly-torn bedspread, "You're too damn cute to be punished."

The only response I get are those adorable, chocolate-brown eyes. And, miraculously, that causes the stress to ebb away.

"C'mere," I call him over to my spot on the couch once I've found the right materials. He leaps up immediately, curling up into a ball in my lap. Carefully, I take a needle and thread, beginning to work on the pillow. Scout tore it into thirds, so it's fairly easy to create a new layout. I stitch in a rhythmic pattered—in, out, up, down. In, out, up, down. I feel a sudden rush of gratitude for the Home Economics class I was forced to take freshman year.

This continues for a solid hour until I've created the final product—a slightly misshapen but still usable pillowcase. I carefully stuff it with the leftover fluff and close it up again, fluffing it a few times.

Once I'm done, I blow out a breath.

"Okay, Scout. On to your next victim."

He yawns in lieu of a response, and I can't help but laugh as I take the blanket up in my arms and begin to work away.

________

Reed calls me a few hours after I've patched up his belongings, and his voice is alarmingly tired-sounding.

"Hey, Evelyn," he yawns into the phone, "I'm on my break, and I just wanted to check up on you."

"Maybe I should be the one checking on you," I respond, and even through the slight chuckle, I can hear the note of concern in my own voice. "Are you alright, Reed?"

There's a tension-filled pause, but it's erased when he says, "Yeah. Yeah, I'm fine."

My stomach twists, and he changes the subject.

"How's Scout?"

"Disastrous," Is my reply, pushed past a dramatic sigh, "He destroyed a pillow and part of a comforter, but I sewed them up—"

"He what?" Comes Reed's voice, and it's much more intense than I expected. The mere tone makes me want to shrink.

"Um," I say nervously, "Yeah, I mean—it was accidental, but—"

"Oh, God," he groans. "If my dad notices—"

"Reed," I laugh nervously, interrupting him, "I'm sure your dad will understand; it's just what dogs do. Besides, I fixed them, so there's no way he'll be mad."

"You don't get it," he snaps in a reply, and I feel a pang of hurt resonate in my chest, "My dad doesn't work like that; he's not into that whole understanding thing."

"You're being ridiculous," I say, trying my hardest to make my voice light-hearted, "There's no way—"

"There is way, Evelyn," he growls, and it comes out harsher than anything he's said to me in the past few weeks. "You just—you wouldn't understand."