Her Rustanov Bully: the (possibly romantic?) tale of how I pucked around and found out
Her Rustanov Bully: Chapter 18

I woke up on Sunday morning to replace several voice texts from Trish.

7:42 a.m.: “Hey! Can I borrow your green Converse? I’m going to breakfast with this criminal justice major I met at the Wings and Sings Karaoke Party last night, and they’ll look so cute with the dress I’m wearing. Converse always make it look like you’re not trying too hard, even if your titties are on full display.”

8:23 a.m.: “Okay, I didn’t hear back from you, so I borrowed them anyway because fashion emergency. Girl, your room is a hazmat site. I nearly got lost in there.”

9:20 a.m.: “Well, karma bit me in the ass. She didn’t even show up. Should’ve known better than to trust someone who asks you to go out at the crack of dawn. Anyway, I’m at the store, looking for my friend Stevie C. in the ice cream aisle. Want anything?”

9:45 a.m.: “Hey, you okay? How’s P.M.? Just realized it’s been over twenty-four hours since I last heard from you. Check in and let me know that Russkie asshole didn’t kill you in your sleep and try to make it look like an accident. If he did, don’t worry, girl, I will avenge you!”

I snickered at her vow before leaving a voice text of my own: “I’m fine. Yesterday, I decided to seek Artyom out for a mature conversation about what went down between us. We communicated our frustrations, apologized for our behavior, and then set clear boundaries and promised to respect each other in the future.”

Trish’s reply came back almost instantly.

10:14 a.m.: Whoa. Are you serious?

I gave the phone a serene smile before sending back another voice text: “Of course I’m not! I’ve spent the last thirty-six hours changing P.M.’s bandages, watching Clara Quinn breakdowns on YouTube, ordering food deliveries with special instructions to drop it at the side door—you know, basically hiding out like the conflict-averse coward I am. Twelve more hours to go. Wish me luck.”

Trish responded with a laughing emoji and two rows of shamrocks.

I was about to leave her another voice text about helping me pick up my car when something wet licked my bare leg.

“P.M.! You’re feeling better!” I lowered the phone to replace her midnight-black face resting on the side of the bed. But then she started whimpering. Not in pain, though—in that urgent way dogs do when their poor bladder is working overtime.

I guessed the absorbent doggie pads that had mysteriously appeared outside my door when I woke up on Saturday weren’t cutting it for her anymore.

“Yeah, we can go out,” I told her, hopping out of bed. “But we’ve got to be careful. Hold on….”

Thank goodness, the suite I’d been given had its own bathroom and sliding glass doors that led directly to the snow-covered yard beside the carport. I took a cowardly second to peep out the window door to make sure it was still empty. Yes! The driveway was black-monster-truck free.

After pulling on a coat and slipping back into the snow boots I’d worn during the P.M. rescue mission, I grabbed a towel to improvise a makeshift harness and gently slung it under the black pittie’s bandaged torso.

P.M. did not appreciate my last-minute Nurse MacGyver job. She shot me an indignant look over her shoulder, as if to say, Girl, what are you doing? I look like a fool.

“I promise you, this is for your own good,” I answered, meeting her doggie glare. “It’ll keep your ribs stable while you do your business. Now come on….”

With a gentle nudge, I got P.M. moving out the door, but as we crab-walked toward the small patch of grass by the empty carport, a knot of anxiety tightened in my chest. I carefully unharnessed her, giving her upbeat encouragement to do her business even as my thoughts kept spiraling around her future.

Getting quality people to adopt pitties at the shelter was hard enough—especially one as strikingly black as P.M. And now, with her needing assistance just to pee for the next couple of weeks? That was an even harder sell. She deserved nothing less than a loving home after all she’d endured, but the reality loomed over me like a storm cloud. The shelter’s 90-day limit for housing dogs ticked down with every passing moment, and if we didn’t replace her a home soon… Well, the county’s mandate to euthanize unclaimed or unwanted dogs wouldn’t care about P.M.’s sad backstory.

The crackle of tires rolling over concrete jolted me out of my worried thoughts—letting me know my run of good luck had run out. The hockey player I successfully avoided for the last thirty-six hours was back. Like, right now.

My first thought was, Shit! Shit! Shit!

My second one was a little less panicked. Maybe I could use the bushes separating the carport from the yard as cover and sneak back inside before he spotted me?

I ducked down low and turned to P.M., who was daintily sniffing at the shrubbery lining the driveway, taking her sweet time deciding which lucky bush deserved the honor of receiving her pee squat.

“Come on, girl,” I whispered. “Hurry up! Hurry up!”

P.M. gave me a look that reminded me of my mom pursing her lips whenever Dad asked if she was ready to leave yet. But then, she squatted into the bit of bush she’d just finished investigating.

“Good girl,” I whispered gratefully, slipping the towel back under her rib cage as hastily as I could. “Super Good Girl!”

Relief filled my chest as I began crab-walking her toward the open door. Maybe I could make it back to the guest room before he⁠—

“Oh my God, Yommie! Is this her?” A gorgeous, light-skinned Black woman with long, wavy brown hair suddenly charged around the bushes. “She’s even better than you described her on the phone!”

That was all the warning either P.M. or I got before she crouched down to shower the black pittie with affection.

“Aren’t you a beautiful girl?” she crooned, scratching P.M. behind the ears.

The same could be asked about her. She was a very beautiful girl. Stunning, actually, with a face that looked like the gods in charge of beauty had carved it as an example of what the perfect woman should look like—flawless skin and features so symmetrical, it felt like staring at a work of art.

She also wore a dark purple Northwestern hoodie with the school’s name written out in big white letters and a logo, letting everyone know it had been established in 1851.

My dad had gone to Northwestern for his MBA after getting his bachelor’s at UMG, and even with his legacy status, he didn’t think I’d have a chance of being accepted. The prestigious Chicago university was that hard to get into. So, she was smart, too.

Unlike me.

“Oh my God. How are you still so gorgeous after everything you’ve been through,” she asked P.M. while somehow deftly avoiding getting her perfectly made-up face licked by the dog she was complimenting.

Actually, no—that was a lie. There wasn’t any evidence that she was even wearing makeup. Her flawless skin really did glow, and her hazel eyes were really that anime large and wide, no foundation, contour, or mascara required.

She was basically a fairy-tale princess come to life—with mermaid-level hair to match.

But why would this ideal woman be here on a random February weekend?

One glance at Artyom answered that question. He watched her with a soft, fond look as she gushed over P.M.

My heart stuttered with a new realization. So, Artyom did have a girlfriend. Just not one who went to the University of Gemidgee.

One who was my exact opposite in every way: light where I was dark, with wavy mermaid hair compared to the dreads I’d settled on after giving up on keeping up with hair extensions my sophomore year.

My stomach cramped with a weird emotion as I watched Artyom watch her. Seriously, could she be any more perfect?

I would soon regret asking myself that question.

“Oh my gosh, I’m being so rude. I should introduce myself to you, too. Hi, I’m Ruthie!” The modern-day princess stood up to reveal one more opposite quality from me.

She was tall—at least 5’10”—compared to my slight, stooped-over 5’4”. And the way her leggings stretched over her toned legs made it clear she probably had an athletic build under that purple hoodie. That, and the word VOLLEYBALL revealed itself underneath the words NORTHWESTERN when she rose to her feet.

So she was a brilliant, beautiful, kind, college-level athlete, with a cutesy name and a down-to-earth, friendly vibe that made her really hard to hate.

The answer to my question was a heart-sinking yes. Yes, she could be even more perfect.

I didn’t know whether to feel totally pathetic or completely confused.

What was Artyom doing making loaded “anything” deals with me when he had a relationship going with this vision of perfection?

I plastered a polite smile on my face anyway. It wasn’t his girlfriend’s fault she was dating a callous asshole.

“Hi, Ruthie,” I said, shaking her hand as best I could while still hanging on to P.M.’s towel harness. “I’m Lydia.”

“I know,” she practically squealed. “And I can’t thank you enough for rescuing P.M. from that awful situation. I can’t wait to take her home!”

“Wait, what?” I asked, shaking my head. “Who said you could take P.M. home?”

Ruthie looked at me, her fairy-tale face scrunching with confusion. Then she turned to glare at Artyom. “Oh my God, Yommie. Did you really not tell her about me?”