“I doubt Justin would appreciate your sense of humor,” I say, referring to her newest Tinder relationship of eight weeks. “Besides, that’s, like, the 811th time you’ve made that joke.”
“I think Juss has imagined us having sex. And I only have one joke. I’m joke-impaired. Don’t be so ableist.”
I squeeze her hand. “Hey, spaghetti doesn’t sound completely revolting. I’ll eat it if you make it.”
“Just to be clear, you’re talking about eating actual pasta, right?”
I almost laugh as I struggle to sit up. “Enough jokes. I’m too fragile. I need to know you’ll be there when I get my heart broken tomorrow.”
“You’re jumping in the deep end. You best believe I’ll be there with a life vest, Coco,” she says, teasing me about Max’s nickname as she gets to her feet. “Just manage your expectations, babe. You can’t control everything. You sure as fuck can’t control who you love.”
I’m probably too weak to stand on my own, so I don’t even try. “Are you saying you’re falling in love with Justin?”
She holds out her hand to help me up. “Uh, no. But I think he might be falling in love with me.”
My joints creak as I rise to my feet. “Tell me about it in the car. Then we can head back. Everyone should be gone by then.”
She purses her lips as she thinks about this. “I’d rather not talk about it. I’d rather you help me scroll through Tinder.”
“Oof,” I say with a grimace as she grabs her phone off the grass. “That bad, huh?”
She turns her phone screen toward me, so we can both watch as she opens her Tinder app. “Ooh, this guy looks like he might have a caretaker fetish.”
I swipe left across the picture of the guy standing in front of his bathroom mirror with his chest covered in shaving cream. “I’m your life vest today.”
Dahlia and I sit in my Nissan with the engine idling in the parking lot of Jack’s Bar & Grill in Laurelhurst. My leg bounces anxiously as I stare at the entrance, watching people in office-casual attire racing in and out through the pouring rain; not a single umbrella in sight. You gotta love the PNW.
Unfortunately, right now I’m hating it.
I don’t own an umbrella. I’ll have to go in looking like a drowned cat. In the seven days since Max and I last saw each other, I’ve lost about six pounds from lack of appetite. And after a year and a half of refusing bad hospital cafeteria food, I didn’t have much extra padding to spare.
I tried wearing loose clothing and giving my hair some extra volume, but neither will stand up to this torrential downpour. I should have checked the weather before we drove out here.
Dahlia begins peeling off her green hoodie, but I hold my hand up to stop her.
“I have a cami on,” she assures me.
I shake my head. “No, I don’t need it. I just need to psyche myself up. I didn’t think this through.”
“Just do it.”
“This isn’t a Nike ad.”
She shrugs and reaches for her bottle of water in the cup holder. “Just get it over with. Rip off that bandage, babe.”
I suck in a deep breath and hold it for a few seconds before I let it out slowly. Time to dive in the deep end.
“Wish me luck.”
“Nope. You don’t need it.”
I smile as I grab my phone and slide it into the front pocket of my hoodie, which I now realize is the same one I was wearing the last time I was here. Great.
“One, two, three.”
I throw open the driver’s side door and hop out. As I race toward the entrance, the rain instantly soaks through my hair to my scalp, running down the back of my neck and underneath my hoodie, saturating the T-shirt beneath. My canvas sneakers are drenched as I step in one puddle after another. The biggest pool of water is located right in front of the covered entrance.
The puddle is too large for me to jump over. My entire foot is submerged in cold rainwater up to my ankle as I hopscotch across the puddle. Yanking the door open, I burst inside and shake the water out of my hair like a dog. I try to avoid smearing my eye makeup as I wipe away the rain from my face.
I scan the bar from end to end, searching for Max, but he’s nowhere in sight. My attention is so fixated, I don’t notice the hostess is talking to me.
“The bar is open if you want to seat yourself,” she says warmly.
I smile at her, then I turn back to the bar. The woman I vaguely remember, the one who seemed to cover for him so he could take me home, is chatting with another bartender I don’t recognize. But Max is nowhere to be seen.
“I’m looking for someone,” I say, turning back to the hostess. “A bartender… Max. Is he working today?”
“Max?” Her nose scrunches up in confusion, and she repeats the name one more time before her eyes widen. “Oh, Max! Oh, yeah, he doesn’t work here anymore.”
“Are you sure? He was just here last week.”
She glances at the woman behind the bar and nods. “Yep. I’m sure. He quit last week.”
For a moment, I wonder if he told me he was going to quit his job. Perhaps I was too tipsy to remember. I recall him telling me he fell into bartending accidentally. Maybe he quit so he could pursue a career in data science. But walking out on your job without already having another one lined up seems a little rash.
I grit my teeth and thank the hostess before I leave. Standing under the awning, I blink furiously against the prick of tears, but I manage to hold them back as I sigh with relief. I can put this one-night stand behind me now. Or at least, I can try to.
3
Black & White
Four months later
I turn over in bed and Gary groans when I accidentally elbow him in the back.
“Sorry,” I say with a smile as I wrap my arms around him.
He groans even louder as I squeeze him tightly against me.
“Stop pretending you don’t love this. This is why you sleep with me every night.”
He kicks his paws out. Even though his legs are facing away from me, this is his subtle way of telling me to give him some space.
“Fine.” I bury my face in the scruff of his neck to place a loud smacking kiss on him. “I’m taking a shower.”
He whimpers at the mention of the word “shower.” Gary’s ambivalent about bath time. Sometimes he loves it, sometimes he hates it. He loved it yesterday when I brought home a new treat dispenser that adheres to the wall tiles. While I lathered up his fur, it dispensed a treat at pre-programmed intervals.
I adopted my eight-year-old Golden Retriever last month after moving into my new studio apartment in First Hill. Back in the ’80s, this three-story hotel was converted into apartments. At a mere 430 square feet, my place isn’t much, but it’s mine. Plus, it’s all I can afford within driving distance of my new job.
I’m now an assistant beekeeper for Wallingford Honey Company, a local urban honey farm that makes most of their income through honeybee leases and beekeeping classes. My starting salary is just above minimum wage, as I learn the trade. Way less than the starting salary of a veterinarian. But at least my new boss, Anita, allows me to bring Gary along with me while I work.