Page 114 of Puppy Love

If there’s one thing I learned from my parents, it’s that the easiest way to get your mind off something is to have a drink. I don’t use this technique often, because the fear of addiction haunts my every move, but I do have to admit that it works.

Heat beams from the outdoor space heater, the snow on the patio furniture melted away long ago, leaving the metal barstools warm and dry. I hoist myself onto the chair, looping Reese’s leash around the center leg of the table. A slow, steady beat flows from the inside of the building, surrounding me in a mellow melody. A gray-haired waitress approaches me, pen and notepad in hand, and I hope, in the deepest parts of me, that the teary puffiness of my face has gone down.

“Hey doll. What can I getcha?” she offers in a thick Boston accent.

“Can I have a Long Island?” I ask, looking down at Reese who’s curled next to the heater like a baking croissant. This is the first time he’s been out since the attack, other than our quick trips around the block. But I needed him. Everything stops when I look at him, all the hurt, all the regret. If I’m grateful for anything on this planet, it’s Reese. “And a bowl of water for him?”

The woman nods. “Sure thing.”

I watch her disappear into the crowd inside, and I wonder if anyone that’s here was here the night that I met Cam. If they were a background character in this painful, unrequited story. She pushes past a tall, olive-toned man with buzzed hair, a box-dyed blonde woman with an array of quote tattoos, a—

Fuck.

A pale, slender, red-haired woman. Should I say “a” or “the”?

“Mallory.”

The name surprises me the second it comes out of my mouth. I don’t mean to say it, but the word slides out so naturally. Instinctually. Second nature. Right as I’m about to look away, right when I realize I’ve been staring, not subtly, at my ex-wife in the center of a crowd, Mallory’s eyes lock onto mine. Her lips wear that familiar, expensive shine, her eyes the same, stunning shade of blue. I try to look away, hoping that if I pretend I didn’t see her, she’ll have the same courtesy. I can’t do this, not now. But I can hear the tapping of her stilettos against the floor growling louder and louder.

I don’t know what to do.

Should I grab Reese and make a run for it? Should I pretend I have amnesia? Running for it is probably the better move. But my foot doesn’t so much as budge when I try. My legs refuse to cooperate. The clicking grows louder.

Just move damnit, move!

And louder.

Here we go.

“Violet!” Mallory’s voice is slurred and shrill. She’s clearly intoxicated, her drink swaying in her hand above her head. “It’s so good to see yo—“

Mallory’s more drunk than I had expected. I can see now the smudged lip-gloss and the drooped eyelids. And because of her quick, tipsy sway, the front of her red, open-toed heel catches on Reese’s leash, catapulting her face first onto the concrete patio.

“Shit!”

My legs seem to have regained their strength. I hop down from the tall stool and grab Mallory by her arms, pulling her to her feet. “Are you okay?!” Mallory smiles up at me, her drunken blue eyes luminescent from the dim patio lighting. “Oh my god!”

Mallory’s smile drops.

“What?!” she asks anxiously, stumbling backward. I tighten my grip on her arm to keep her from falling.

“Umm...” I trail off. Despite the divorce, I know plenty of things about Mallory Sinclair. I know she only likes red wine. She refuses to wear workout clothes that aren’t Lululemon or Gymshark. She will never leave the house without a full face of makeup that costs more than my car payment. And I know, more than anything, that Mallory does not do well with blood. “You just have a little scrape,” I lie. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

“Oh my lanta!” The gray-haired waitress has returned with one Long Island, and one silver water bowl. Poor woman never saw it coming. In truth, Mallory’s “little scrape” is more of a shallow gash, right in the center of her chin. It might not need stitches, but it is pretty gnarly. “You alright miss?”

I stare at the waitress wide-eyed, trying to tell her without verbal communication to not make a big deal of the nasty injury. Mallory just looks at me like a deer in the headlights. Like the answer to the woman’s question is held in my hands. I look at the waitress.

“She’s okay. I’m just going to get her cleaned up. Is it okay if I bring him with us?” I gesture to Reese, who somehow, is still passed out.

Oh, to be a dog.

“No problem sweetheart.”

I unwrap the leash from the table and guide Mallory by the arm through the crowd, into the family bathroom.

“Oh my god!” Mallory squeals, staring at herself in the mirror. Her thin pale fingers hover over the swollen cut on her face. “Violet!”

The paper towels in my hand are pretty much disintegrating under the harsh tap flowing from the sink.

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