Page 93 of Puppy Love

“You believe in everything except your ability to be loved.”

My stomach sinks, a dry lump forming in my throat. The inside of my cheek grows raw as I chew it furiously, my nose tingling, but I don’t think it’s from the cold air. His large hand presses against my shoulder, squeezing softly.

“She doesn’t love me, not like that,” he says. “But you, she’s fond of.”

The tingling sensation begins to spread over my cheeks now, a glossy coat forming over my eyes. I stare briefly, forcing them to dry before clearing my throat.

“Hayden, I had no idea you felt that way about her,” I say, pinching the corners of my eyes. “I feel like such an asshole.”

I really, really don’t feel good. Hayden squeezes my shoulder again, and I glance up at him, a wide smile sewn into his face.

“I knew it!” he sings happily. My brows weave together in confusion.

“What?”

“I knew you loved her!” he says excitedly. “Otherwise, you wouldn’t feel like an asshole.”

“I don’t—”

Hayden clicks his tongue, shaking his head.

“Uh-uh. I did not confess my love for her to you just to have you deny your feelings. I want to know everything.”

I shake my head.

“If you’re so in love with her, why would you want to hear me talk about it?” I ask. Maybe Hayden doesn’t actually know what he’s asking for.

“Violet,” he says, leaning in closely. His eyes are meaningful, locked onto mine like we’re both holding the same secret. “You think that is the hardest pill I’ve had to swallow?” He chuckles, a soft parenthesis forming on the sides of his lips. “My heart is physically broken. I was born into the wrong body and lived in it for years. So, seeing my best friend receive the love she deserves wouldn’t exactly be a hardship for me.”

Heat fills my cheeks every time he says the word “love,” and I want to correct him, to say that I don’t love Cam, I only just learned I liked her. But Hayden isn’t finished, and I can tell by the look in his eye that he needs me to hear this.

“The only hardship comes when you decide not to love her anymore. When her anxiety becomes a chore, and her depression consumes her, and she refuses to breathe fucking air if it isn’t purified first. And if that happens, if you go through with it and then later decide she is too much for you, I’ll be there to pick up every single piece. I will help put her back together, knowing she’ll find someone new. But please, Violet, I’m begging you.” His eyes lock onto mine. “Please don’t make me.”

Hayden’s eyes glow under the dull barn lights, a glossy coat formed over them from unfallen tears. My head tilts, leaning against his bicep, and I squeeze his hand just as he had squeezed mine.

“I won’t, Hayden,” I say softly, feeling every word of it in my chest. “I promise.”*

twenty-nine

Just Breathe

Cam

Inever liked the snow, even before it killed my dad. 23 It soaks through your clothes, it takes hours to shovel, and besides, I don’t like to be cold. I can’t deny, though, how versatile it is.

In the same minutes, the same seconds the avalanche buried my dad’s car on the bypass, I had been in the front yard, building an igloo for the both of us. Unlike me, he loved the snow. He always said it reminded him of my mom, who he met while skiing. I wanted to surprise him. But when the police rolled up to tell me what had happened, the snow packed into my gloves turned red. The blood was on my hands. At least it felt that way. Here I was, playing in the thing that had just killed the person I loved most.

There hadn’t even been an avalanche warning. Nobody could have known, even the people who were supposed to predict those kinds of things. Still, I had been the one to suggest he take the scenic route on his way home instead of the city. I told him to admire the mountains, soak in the snowfall. Really, I was just trying to buy more time to finish the igloo. It was taking a lot longer than I thought it would, and I needed a little bit more time.

But I got more time than I ever wanted. More than I ever asked for.

I never liked the snow, but now, I hate it.*

I peek through the salon window, the one pointing to the parking lot. Giant flakes drift down, covering everything in a thick coat of white. It blankets the branches of the pine trees, like a perfect winter painting. I shake my head.

“I hope you have a jacket,” I say to the shaved Bichon on the table. His tongue hangs out the side of his mouth in a steady pant. “‘Because you are going to be cold.”

The silver comb glides through his tail, which is the only part of his coat I managed to save during the dematting process. I tug softly, releasing the tangled hair to create a smooth tuft. The dog turns, licking me gently, and I smile.

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