Page 101 of Puppy Love

“Oh what, so you’re not going to talk to me until I say what you want? Is that it?” I ask, following closely behind. She doesn’t look at me. “Real mature, Cam. Real mature.”

Cam continues staring ahead. God, she is so fucking stubborn sometimes. I know nothing I say is going to please her but the truth. She knows she can get me to do what she wants, and it’s dangerous. Addictive.

But this isn’t an addiction you can just quit. Even if I ended the contract, which I can’t find in myself to even pretend I want, it wouldn’t stop me from thinking about her all the time. I could never see Cam again in my life, and I would still find a piece of her in every day. No, this isn’t an addiction you can quit cold turkey.

I don’t think I can quit it at all.

I sigh loudly, matching my pace with her quick one.

“Fine. I hate my job, okay? I hate Angela, and I hate customer service, and I hate having to pretend that everything is fine and dandy, but that’s what works for me. You’ve got your whole stone-cold ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, and I have my fake smile. Everyone has their thing. Okay?”

Cam freezes, and I hold my breath. Her body turns slowly, facing me, and I realize how closely I’ve been following her. I’m nervous, for some reason. Maybe I took it too far. Maybe I shouldn’t have said all of that.

Actually, I know I shouldn’t have. But I see a smile growing on her face, that heavenly dimple sinking into her cheek. How can someone who looks so wholesome be such a fucking terror? Her eyes travel up to meet mine, and she tilts her head ever so slightly.

“Okay.”*

thirty-one

Headache

Cam

Whenever possible, I like to save the best for last. Especially on days like this, when my brain just won’t stop spinning. I always eat my dessert after dinner, my books are read in order from least intriguing to most, and I always like to choose the easiest dog to groom to end my day. After you’ve groomed six or seven dogs, you don’t want to wrestle an aggressive Maltese or a 150-pound Pyrenees who hasn’t had a bath in three years.

My schedule stated that Banksy was a dalmatian. Everything else had long hair or needed something trimmed. Reuben has a tendency to nip, and Jonah pees from excitement every time you touch him. Banksy, however, has no behavioral notes. He was written down as a simple bath with a nail trim. For a groomer, that’s as easy as it gets. What I didn’t know is that Martha failed to note that the five-year-old pup had not been groomed—ever. He had never experienced the rush of water over his body, nor the quick pressure of the nail clippers. I’m not even sure his feet have ever been touched before, given his snarling and flailing reaction.

I was shivering when I left the apartment this morning, snow piled high on the ground and cold gusts of wind hitting my face. Now, sweat drips down the sides of my forehead, my one hand gripping the nail clippers, the other, a spotted, kicking foot.

Normally, this wouldn’t be a big deal. I could handle the tugging and the snapping, the spinning and alligator rolling. But my mind is racing, even more than usual, and I feel like I can’t even talk to Dr. Burton about it.

I don’t know how this happened, how I suddenly found myself so close to Violet. How that day I had an attack and asked for Adrian and Hayden, really all I wanted was her. No eighties song sounds quite as good when it isn’t in her voice, and nobody else could make me open to the thought that crystals possess special powers.

It’s kind of like when I met Adrian in first grade and begged my dad for a Belle dress with the emblem on the front because I thought they looked so cool in theirs. Or how Hayden showed me the best order to watch Star Wars in, and now, I won’t do it any other way.

I’m scared, though, because this is how it all started with Cody. This is how I became so dependent on him, how I thought, for years, I couldn’t exist without him. I know now it wasn’t the truth. But this thing with Violet could end just as badly.

Not in a romantic way, of course. There’s nothing romantic about a sex contract, that’s the entire point. But even though I’d never say it to her face, Violet is one of my best friends. And friendships can be just as problematic.

I coax Banksy into the kennel. Two black hoses lead from a large machine on top to the barred doors where they blow a small steady stream of air to help the dog’s coat dry. It’s my favorite invention ever because it helps dry dogs who haven’t been desensitized to the loud forceful air from the velocity dryer.

Banksy, however, isn’t pleased at all. His head tilts back, and from the back of his throat, he lets out a loud, gravely bark.

“I know, buddy. I’m not stoked about it either,” I say, starting to clean the room around me. My shears and clippers are piled and sanitized, then placed back into the toolbox. The sound of the vacuum cleaner drowns out the air from the kennel dryer, and I walk about the room sucking up balls of loose hair draped across the ceiling and floor, curled into the corners like dust bunnies.

After rinsing all the excess fur and soap out of the tub, I open the door to the kennel. Banksy, who had fallen asleep during my deep cleaning, shoots his head up and sprints out of the cage. A blur of black and white runs circles around the room, his long pink tongue flying out the side of his mouth. I laugh, pouncing down and slapping my palms against my thighs.

“Banksy! You got the zoomies, buddy?”

Banksy’s eyes fixate on me, and mid-sprint, he changes direction. His spotted legs move quickly across the slick floor as he barrels toward me, tongue flying and tail wagging violently.

“Banksy! Banksy, buddy, slow do-”

Banksy pounces his front feet onto my thighs, his skull colliding with mine. My knees buckle underneath me, and I collapse onto the floor, clutching the right side of my head.

“Fuck!”

A throbbing pain radiates from my face, my right eye clamped shut. Banksy stops only for a moment to shove his nose into my ear, then continues running circles the room, which is now spinning. My stomach shakes, and if I weren’t fighting it with everything I’ve got, I’d be hurling onto the wet floor right now.

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