Page 2 of The Match

Charlie walks up beside me and gives me a look that says, I told you not to shirk your responsibilities. He’s so much more adult than me.

I put my hands on my hips and frown down at him. “I have twenty minutes before I need to be at the coffee shop, and I have nothing to wear, so quit giving me that high-and-mighty look or I’m going to shave your fur and wear it as a coat, like Cruella de Vil.” I’d never.

He rolls his eyes at me. Some people might think it’s impossible for a dog to roll his eyes, but that’s only because they haven’t met Charlie. I smile and rub his adorable head because I can never be mad at him for more than two seconds.

Thankfully, I spot the turquoise summer dress I wore yesterday. It’s lying crumpled on the couch in a tight little ball that would make my mom gasp with disbelief. Her maid would never allow one of her dresses to crease. How atrocious.

Crossing the room, I shake out my dress, give it a good sniff, then decide that wearing it one more day won’t hurt anyone. It smells a little too much like the burger I ate last night, so after pulling it on I douse myself in vanilla body spray.

Now I’m a walking ad for Bath & Body Works, and I consider requesting some sort of royalty from them.

The clock continues to race, and I look like I’m in the middle of a game show challenge as I rush around my apartment trying to gather everything I need for the meeting, take my meds, and get Charlie fed. I better win a million dollars when I beat this clock.

“Charlie, find your vest,” I tell him while hopping on one foot and pulling my white tennis shoe on the other.

Another fact that would make Melony Jones gasp. Mom swears that this is the reason I’m not married yet. I think it has more to do with the shockingly small pool of men who want a serious relationship with a woman who has to take a service dog with her everywhere and might drop down with a seizure in the middle of their dinner date.

And I just haven’t been looking for a man all that much. My days are full of work, and I don’t have much time to devote to weeding out the guys who only want to sleep with me from the ones who I could count on to show up if I made them my emergency contact. And at this point in my life, I’m ready for the emergency contact.

I check the time on my phone and then give myself two minutes to brush my teeth and wipe the mascara from underneath my eyes. I wish I had more time to spend on my face. There’s nothing I hate more than feeling rushed for a meeting. It lends too much credence to my mom’s opinion that I don’t have my act together.

In record time, I swipe on some pink lip balm and knot a loose braid over my shoulder all the way to where it stops right above my hip. I’ve been growing my blond locks out for a few years now, and it’s grown so long that I half expect a prince to throw a rock at my window and tell me to let down my hair.

Do I have a fairy-tale princess obsession? I blame it on those Wednesday cotillion lessons I had to attend in high school.

Charlie pulls me out of my wandering thoughts and keeps me on track by dropping his blue vest at my feet. He’s better at finding things than I am. “I’m sorry about the ‘turning your fur into a coat’ comment. We both know I’d give my soul for you, Charlie boy.” After buckling the vest around his golden body, I give him a quick kiss on his head.

Since the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet my new client is right down the street, I plan on walking instead of calling a ride. Not being able to drive has been one of the hardest parts of living with a disability. There are so many nights when I wish I could hop into my car and run down to the drugstore to pick up a pint of ice cream. Or when I run out of tampons, it would be so nice to pop down to the store myself instead of having to call and wait for an Uber or order off of a one-hour grocery delivery service. Without fail, my delivery person ends up being a young guy. And every single time, he blushes when he makes the drop.

Evening, ma’am. Here are your military-grade tampons and overnight pads. I hope you don’t die of anemia tonight.

At 9:20, Charlie and I are on the sidewalk, jogging toward the coffee shop. Literally, jogging. My braid is bouncing around my face, and I realize I probably should have worn bike shorts under my dress. Someone catcalls at me from somewhere across the street, and my suspicions are confirmed.

Somehow, I remembered to grab my binder full of information to share about our matching process as well as our training methods and fees before I darted from the apartment. I wish I could say that our dogs come free of charge to qualifying recipients, but we just aren’t there yet. Right now they come with a hefty price tag. It weighs on me that there are so many people who could benefit from having a service dog but can’t afford one due to the massive medical bills that also come along with having a disability.

But, hopefully, after the big fundraiser Jo and I are putting on in a couple months, that will all change. Several major businesses have agreed to donate their goods and services for our first-ever fancy-schmancy silent auction. If we make the kind of money we’re hoping, we’ll be able to give away our dogs one hundred percent free of charge to those who qualify. The recipients will have to prove that they are financially capable of providing food, necessary medications, and vet visits for their dog, but that’s it.

If all goes as hoped, it’ll become a yearly event.

I clutch my binder tightly under my arm as I race toward Hudson Roasters. When a bead of sweat runs down my face, I wonder if it would have been better to just reschedule.

The man I’m meeting, Jacob Broaden, wanted to discuss having his ten-year-old daughter matched with one of our dogs. And maybe I would have canceled if it wasn’t for her particular disability. Epilepsy. It’s not as if we’ve never matched anyone who shares my same disability before, but for some reason, knowing how young she is makes me feel a kinship to this girl. I feel like I owe it to her to show up today.

The dad sounded nice enough over email—if a little . . . eccentric. Although, I think he might have been in a hurry when he sent off the email, because he misspelled a few words. His choice of five exclamation marks at the end of every sentence was intriguing as well. Actually, now that I think of it, I’m just hoping he’s not a creep. I really don’t want to get stuffed in someone’s trunk today.

As we round the corner to the coffee shop, Charlie and I slow our pace. It’s as hot as hell today. I’m sweating like I’ve been sitting in the desert wearing a parka, and my skin is emitting the vanilla body spray in toxic quantities.

My mom would be so proud. I’m really putting my best foot forward today.

Before I reach the door of the coffee shop, I come to a stop. I close my eyes and catch my breath, mentally reminding myself of all the major points I need to cover today and hoping I don’t forget anything. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing this for three years now; I’m always super nervous before these first meetings. I think it’s because I know firsthand how much a service dog can change someone’s life, and I don’t want to say anything to deter them from taking that step.

I glance down at my dress and do a quick check that all my fun parts are where they should be and have not fallen out of the scoop neckline during my jog. But who am I kidding? None of my fun parts are big enough to move, let alone escape their confines. There are things I love about being tall and lean, but having a membership to the itty-bitty-you-know-what committee is not one of them.

I open the door, and Charlie walks through with a loose leash like a perfect little gentleman. During the first year after I adopted Charlie, my eyes were constantly glued to him and his to me. I used my face and hands, asking him to stay, wait, go ahead, or lie down at my feet. Now it feels as if Charlie knows what I’m thinking before I think it. He and I are so attuned to each other that sometimes I forget he’s there. He’s a part of me. My second skin. A very hairy second skin.

It’s an odd thing when there’s no one in the world you trust more than your dog. But that first time I had a seizure alone in my apartment, and Charlie did exactly what we had trained him to do—push the medical alert button on the wall that calls Joanna and then my parents, then turn me on my side and lick my face to help me regain consciousness—it sealed my trust.

And today I hope I can help a little girl and her dad find that same security.

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