Plus, I received another call today from a potential new client—my fourth since Monday. I’m at the point now where I need to turn away more business than I accept.
The contours of my life have changed so dramatically in the past year, and the freshness and unpredictability of my days typically imbue me with energy. But tonight all I want to do is flop on my couch with Thai food and a Netflix binge.
And I have to admit, it would be nice to have someone beside me to rub my feet and laugh with.
You wanted this life, I remind myself.
And I do. It’s just sometimes, the paths not taken call to me. I’m considering texting Derrick when Romeo pulls me forward, lunging toward a piece of garbage someone left on the sidewalk.
I try to pull him away, but he resists, and for a moment I question the wisdom of getting a dog who can outmuscle me.
Then a deep voice calls my name: “Avery? Is that you?”
I spin around, startled.
My body relaxes when I recognize Skip, a guy I went out with a couple of times a few months ago. Skip is smart, kind, and easy on the eyes, but nothing sparked between us.
“Hey!” I call. His back is to Connecticut Avenue, where rush-hour traffic is still churning by. “What are you doing in such a hip neighborhood?”
He laughs and walks closer. “I had a meeting. I was just going to grab a burger when I saw you.”
Skip looks a little thinner than when I last saw him, but otherwise his easy smile, broad shoulders, and blunt, appealing features are unchanged. Romeo doesn’t seem to share my opinion; he’s behind my legs, cowering, his plastic cone pressing against the backs of my thighs.
“Who’s this guy?” Skip asks in a gentle voice. Instead of coming closer, he squats down. “Hey, buddy, it’s okay. I’m a friend of your mama’s.”
“He’s a little skittish.”
“Is he like this around everyone?”
“Mostly just men. He’s always been fine with me. But I don’t really know much about Romeo, actually. I just adopted him today.”
Skip grins. “Romeo?”
“He came with the name. And don’t mention the cone of shame; he’s sensitive about it.”
Skip straightens up.
“So—” we both begin at the exact same time. We laugh in unison, too.
“What have you been up to?” he asks.
Skip moved to D.C. almost a year ago. He’s a real estate developer, and the project that brought him here is the building of some luxury homes in Bethesda. I’d first met Skip at the bar at Matisse, a welcoming restaurant with a good wine list. I’d just had drinks with a friend. She needed to rush off to make dinner for her family, but I’d decided to linger over another glass of Chablis and the latest New Yorker. There was no one waiting for me at home.
The David Grann piece is terrific, Skip had said from the next stool over.
I’d lowered my magazine and glanced at him.
An hour later, my one extra glass of Chablis had turned into two, and Skip had pulled his barstool closer to mine.
As we stand together on the sidewalk now, I tell Skip work is keeping me busy, and he mentions that he finally finished renovating the main bathroom of the town house he bought in the Palisades neighborhood. He keeps his voice soft. Gradually, he edges closer until he’s standing just a few feet from Romeo.
“He’s had it tough, hasn’t he? I see the scars. But he seems a little more comfortable around me already. He’ll be okay. Just make sure you socialize him—not just with people but with other dogs, too.”
I look down at Romeo. Skip is right; my dog is still cowering, but at least he’s no longer trying to tuck his stubby tail between his legs. “Do you know a lot about dogs?”
“Some.” His voice remains gentle and easy. “That collar you’ve got—you may want to swap it for a harness. It’ll be easier on his neck, and on your wrist if he yanks.”
By now the cold air is seeping through my coat, and I suppress a shudder. I make an impulsive decision and hold up the bag of Thai food: “It isn’t a burger, but I’m willing to share. How about we keep the conversation going at my house and you can give me some more tips?”
Skip looks surprised, but recovers fast. “Sounds great.”
We walk back to my place, our pace brisk, and as soon as we get inside, I uncork a pinot noir and pour us each a glass.
In the sharper light, I can see more changes in Skip. He’s definitely thinner, and when he pulls off his knit cap, I notice his hair looks a bit shaggy, as if he’s overdue for a trim.
The differences are more than superficial, though. His energy seems more intense. Edgier.
Skip fills up two glasses with water while I transfer the food onto plates, then set them out on the banquet table. Even though I don’t know Skip well, it feels surprisingly natural to be with him again. When I go to scoop kibble into Romeo’s bowl, Romeo jumps up, putting his paws on my stomach and nearly knocking me over.
“Down,” Skip says, flattening out his hand and moving his palm toward the floor.
Romeo ignores him.
“Down,” I repeat, mimicking the gesture and taking a step back so that Romeo’s paws slip off me.
I look at Skip. “Guess we’re going to have to learn some basic commands.”
Skip nods. “A dog that size needs to know when to sit, get down, and stay. It could actually save his life.”
“Really?”
“The streets around here are busy. You don’t want to lose control of him.”
I nod and take off Romeo’s cone so he can eat. “You’ve already earned your dinner, Skip. Anything else?”
“Any bad habits he has—don’t discipline him. It’s not his fault. Redirect and reward him with a treat, since he’s obviously food motivated.”
I like Skip’s approach. There’s a lot I like about him, actually.
I wonder again why our relationship fizzled before it could ever start. Maybe it was timing. Or maybe it’s because Skip is the kind of guy you get serious with, and I don’t want to be serious with anyone right now.
We slide into the banquet and eat in silence for a minute while Romeo wolfs down his kibble, then he flops under the table by my feet with a satisfied sigh.
“He’s doing really well with you around now,” I observe.
The velvety wine and hot, spicy panang have chased away the chill I felt outdoors. It’s also comforting to step out of my usual role and let Skip be the fixer with his concise directions about what I should and shouldn’t do.
“So, give me an update on the houses you’re building. They’re in Bethesda, right? Has construction started yet?”
“It’s good. Permitting took forever, but we break ground in two weeks. We’ve presold forty percent of them, so I’m happy. What about you? Any interesting new clients?”
Since I’m not a therapist, I’m not bound by the rules of confidentiality. Still, I’m circumspect in discussing the people who come to see me. Never using names or identifying details is one of my hard-and-fast rules.
“A few. I’m wrapping up with a young woman who kept getting her heart broken. She’s in a better place now.”
“Yeah?” Skip takes a big sip of wine. “You know, I was wondering—” He cuts himself off.