“Where did you get traded from?”
“Vancouver. We sucked last year and had no hope of making the playoffs, so they sold off a bunch of players at the trade deadline, me included.” I don’t mention that they were happy to get rid of me.
“Sold off!” Her eyes widen. “You make it sound like you’re a…an object.”
“We kind of are.” I shrug. “It’s a business.”
Her lips purse. “That sounds so cynical.”
“That’s me.” I lift my hands.
Yeah, I’m cynical. Life is hard and then you die. Unless you die before you’ve even had a life.
When I first got traded, I thought it was a good thing. A chance to start over, new teammates, new coach, a chance to rehab my somewhat tarnished reputation.
I should have known better than to let my guard down and be happy about something.
She nods slowly. For once, my determined cynicism feels…out of place. She has such a cheerful optimism about her. She just lost her job, but she’s going to try to make money dog walking. That’s really…messed up. And yet, it affects me in a weird way, giving me a soft feeling in my chest.
She’s too happy. Too enthusiastic. Too…likeable. Dammit.
“I have a day off today. I’m going to try to find Otis’s owner. If I can’t, I’ll maybe call a shelter.”
Lilly’s bottom lip pushes out a bit, giving her a sad look.
“I can’t keep him,” I remind her, reading her thoughts.
“I know. I just feel bad for him.”
Hell. I do too. But I need to be practical here.
“I’d take him,” she says. “But since I’m not sure I’ll have enough money to buy myself food, I probably shouldn’t take on another mouth to feed.”
Shit. She says it in a joking, lighthearted way. I’m sure she’s exaggerating her predicament. I hope she is.
“I volunteer at a shelter,” she says reluctantly. “Amsterdam Dog Rescue. You could call them. They could probably take him.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
“I’m going to spend the rest of my day setting up a website and putting some ads on Craigslist and Facebook.”
“You’re really into this.”
“Yep.” She flashes a high beam smile.
“I’ll write up something for you.”
We’ve finished our meals, and I slide off the stool and head to the bedroom that serves as an office. My laptop is still packed in my bag from our trip, so I get it out and boot it up.
My fingers hover over the keyboard. I have no idea what to say. Finally I make up some bullshit about how she was able to accommodate me at the last moment and saved my butt and how Otis loves her and what good care of him she took. I add in some stuff about how she understands Otis’s special needs, which is a euphemism for how he’s messed up, and that she genuinely cares about animals.
I think she does anyway.
I send it to my printer and then snatch it up, sign it, and carry it out to her.
I find her wiping off the counter, having loaded the dishes into the dishwasher and put away the food.
“Wow, you didn’t have to clean up,” I say. “But thank you.”
She shrugs. “I was just sitting here. Otis is sleeping.”
“That’s great. I wish he slept more.”
“I know.” She grins. “But at least he sleeps all night.”
“True.” I hand her the paper.
She doesn’t even read it, just folds it into thirds, then tucks it into her purse. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.”
“Not a problem.” I hesitate. I don’t want her to walk out that door and never see her again. The tug of attraction I feel toward her is puzzling. “Hey. Would you maybe like to have dinner later?”
She freezes. Blinks. “Dinner?”
“Yeah.” I flash what I hope is a persuasive smile.
“Oh. Um. No, thanks.”
My stomach dips.
“I’m not really dating right now,” she adds.
“Good. Me either. That means no reason we can’t date each other.”
The corners of her mouth twitch. For a few seconds, hope flickers inside me.
“I’m sorry,” she says. “I don’t think we’re, uh, compatible.”
I can clearly hear “you’re an asshole” in her tone of voice. Great.
I nod. “I understand. Thanks again for looking after Otis. If I hear of anyone who needs a dog walker, I’ll give them your name.”
“Oh, thank you! That would be awesome. And I appreciate the reference.”
She walks over to Otis, crouches down, and kisses his head. “Bye, Otis. It was fun. Have a good life.”
Jesus.
Then she straightens. “Good luck finding his owner.”
She’s judging me for not keeping him. Or maybe that’s my guilty conscience making me mentally squirm.
“Thanks.” I walk her to the door, reluctant to see her leave. “Good luck to you too.”
She nods and lifts a hand in a wave as she walks down the hall toward the elevators. I watch her, then call, “I hope your day is as nice as your butt!”
She stops. Turns. Shakes her head. I’m pretty sure she’s smiling when she twirls back toward the elevator.
I slowly close the door.
Otis lifts his head and gives me a pathetic look.
“I know, I know,” I say. “I like her too. I should have warned you not to get attached. It’s never a good idea. It’s only a matter of time before things you love are taken away from you.”
* * *
—
My efforts to find Otis’s owner continue to be unsuccessful.
Midafternoon, Cookie comes down to my place to see how we’re doing. “Why don’t you just give him to a shelter? They’ll find a home for him.”
“How can I do that? What about his owner?”
“You can’t find him. And he doesn’t seem too upset, otherwise he’d be trying to find his dog.”
“True.” I tip my head back. “I guess I could do that. I’ve been so focused on finding where he came from.”