It was a couple hours later, bellies full, dog items ordered off of a very extensive list she had compiled while we waited for meal delivery.
"Oh, I see now why you wanted this mongrel," I declared, waving an arm out to where he was steadily gnawing on the bangles on the leg of that hideous fucking chair I'd bought. "You two just want to gang up on me and destroy all my lovely furniture."
"Lovely," she scoffed, reaching down to stick a chew toy in the puppy's mouth. Like the article she'd made me print out said to do. Redirection, not scolding.
"Did you narrow down the list at all?"
"I was leaning toward Forge," she said, giving me a smirk.
"As in forgery? I asked, scooping the dog up, dropping him into her lap, then her into mine.
"It seemed fitting."
And it did, didn't it?
That was how all of this started.
"I like it," I told her, watching as she wrapped up the puppy, giving it a careful squeeze. "Guess what I found today?"
"What?"
"A good launderer. Gonna get that future of ours rolling. You good with that?"
"No."
"No?" I asked, stomach dropping.
"No," she said, looking up at me, eyes dancing. "I am ecstatic about that," she admitted.
Chris - 1 year
I hadn't been able to go into our basement yet.
It was ridiculous.
Frustrating.
Unacceptable.
Especially because the laundry room was in the basement. Which meant that since we moved in four months ago, I hadn't been able to go down to do the wash.
Sometimes, I left it for Finch even though he never followed the instructions on the tags.
Other times, I was too embarrassed to admit I was still struggling, taking the clothes for a wash and fluff in town instead of saying that the basement was unexpectedly hard for me.
See, this one was eerily similar to the one I'd once been held in. The same types of windows, the same layout, the same particular squeaking of the stairs.
Just going down them on the walk-through had made me feel like I was going to throw up all over the realtor's shoes.
I'd wanted a house without a basement. Which was a bit of a cop-out, and I hated even admitting it to Dr. Clark when she'd asked how the house hunt had been going.
I figured only looking at places without basements would make life easier, even if it did cut down on valuable square footage.
But then this house had popped up on the market, making my phone bleep in my pocket.
And there it was.
A two-story sage green Craftsman with a wrap-around porch, four bedrooms, two baths, and a large backyard for our lazy, yet enormous, Forge.
The best part? It was about a ten-minute walk from the beach, and only an eighteen-minute drive to Hailstorm using backroads to avoid the summer traffic.
It was the dream house we were sure didn't actually exist, even though we really wanted to find a place that ticked off all our boxes.
Okay.
Fine.
I wanted to find a place that ticked off all our boxes. Because, well, because I was how I was and I was okay with that.
Within five minutes of getting the new listing alert, Finch was calling me, asking if I had seen it.
Within a day, we were doing a tour.
Within a week, we were in attorney review.
We'd done things a little backward, foregoing the traditional path from single to dating to engaged to married to married homeowners.
For the time being, we were happy with our relationship.
And we were absolutely in love with the house.
Forge especially liked all the moldings that he could sink his teeth into, a bad behavior from puppyhood that he never seemed to outgrow. He always had to be chewing on something. The wood in the house, shoes, spiky balls from the tree in the side yard.
We loved the big oaf.
But he really wasn't the smartest of dogs.
Not by a long-shot.
"What do you say, Forge?" I asked at the basement door opening, looking down into the dark room that never seemed to get bright enough, not even when every light was switched on. "Think we can do this?"
It was a rhetorical question.
Because I was out of panties, and the wash and fluff placed didn't have an appointment for another three days.
Sure, I could do the cop-out thing and buy new panties.
I'd already done that twice, though, and I really needed to get over this already.
Forge looked up at me, dark eyes blank, tail thumping.
You would think a dog his size would mean he was an amazing guardian.
Of course, his siblings--Malcolm's boy and girl--were the best in the world at protecting their home and their owner. Whereas Forge was afraid of butterflies. Yes, butterflies.
"Okay let's do it," I decided, taking a steadying breath, then starting downward.
Each footstep on the bare wood stairs sent a cold chill over my body, made my heartbeat quicken, my stomach knot tighter.
It was nearly a decade after the fact. I'd done everything my therapist had demanded. But these sensations--and the memories attached to them--were as fresh as the day I finally emerged from that basement after months of merciless torture.
"Oh, God," I hissed, after stopping on the last step, looking around, gaze immediately going toward the darkest corner, where it landed on the hideous flair-studded, multi-colored chair.
I was sure I had told Finch to get rid of it.
But, now that I thought about it, I wasn't sure he'd actually told me he had hauled it to recycling.
No, I think his words had been something about how he'd 'found a place for it.
Not a lie, precisely.
But proof that I never could get anything past Finch. He knew I hadn't yet conquered the basement because he knew that if I had made it down the stairs, I would have come rushing back up, lecturing him about getting rid of the chair once and for all.
"Traitor," I mumbled as Forge knocked into my legs on his way over toward the chair. He'd spent a lot of his puppyhood curled up on those cushions. Until, of course, he had outgrown it.
Nostalgia was strong with this one, though, and he moved over toward it, giving it a good sniff, doing a few turns, then lying down in front of it, his giant head resting on the seat cushion.
"I really appreciate your moral support, bud," I told him, taking a couple deep breaths, breathing in enough oxygen to make my face feel buzzy, then charging forward, making my way across the cement floor, reminding myself that the old stains on the floor weren't from blood, weren't evidence of pain. This was a normal house in a normal neighborhood. We'd even met the previous owners. And they were normal people. I'd checked into it to make sure because I couldn't help myself.
The washer and dryer were situated at a far corner with a massive utility sink next to them, directly under a set of small windows.
Half of the work was done, I reminded myself, pulling the washer lid open, dumping the entire basket over top of it, reaching a bit frantically for the detergent. I didn't know if I poured a normal amount or half the bottle, all I knew was it was in there, and then I picked a random button, closed the lid, and bolted up the stairs.
And ran smack into Finch, sending him slamming back into the wall, and me slamming into his chest.