Page 104 of Worst in Show

And man, he sure is right about that.

I’m still full the next morning as I ready the store for Black Friday shoppers, and my thoughts still attempt to backtrack into the Murky Swamp of Complicated Feelings. Fortunately, channeling Micki helps. With her voice in my head, I try to remind myself that it’s good that Leo is being recognized professionally because that will lessen the sting for him when I win the dog contest. I also revisit his Instagram where seeing him in Happy Paws teal brings the first smile of the day to my face. The next few are courtesy of customers, of which there’s a steady stream all day. My buy-one-get-one-free promotion for holiday-themed pet treats is doing its job.

As it turns out, Micki’s slip of the tongue must have made an impression on Leo because he’s extra considerate about giving me space and doesn’t linger after bringing me dinner the way he usually does. He just kisses me goodnight and tells me he can’t wait to see me for training tomorrow.

I text Micki before bed to apologize for being a downer the night before. Life is full of ups and downs, I tell myself, and now things are looking up again, both with Leo and the store.

But then I wake up to a scathing Etsy review where someone is complaining about something that’s not even my fault, and my resolve to be optimistic turns out to be as wobbly as the Jell-O mold from Thanksgiving dinner. What if I really can’t do this?

There’s snow in the air when Leo and I drive out to the farm after work on Saturday.

“Only two weeks left,” Leo says when I reach over to flip through the radio stations for the third time to get away from everything golden oldies. Boris is in a singing mood, and I can’t deal with his howling today. “Feel prepared?”

I glance back at the dogs. “We’re still working on Cho’s talent. How is Tilly doing?”

“I thought we agreed not to talk about that.”

I scoff and look at the passing landscape outside. “Okay.”

“Hey.” He puts his hand on my knee. “What’s going on?”

His touch relaxes me somewhat, and I relent. I tell him about the review. “They said the sewing was poor quality, and that it fell apart after the first wash. I included instructions—that outfit was handwash only.”

His tone is light when he responds. “Don’t worry about it. It’s one review.”

I glare at him. “Don’t worry? Do you know how much it pulls down the ratings when you only have a handful of reviews?”

“Can you respond?”

“That looks defensive.” I rest my elbow against the door and lean my head in my hand. “It doesn’t matter. It’s not your problem.”

“But I want to help.”

“And I want to quit.” He’s quiet at that, which makes me feel even worse. “Sorry. It’s not your fault. Let’s talk about something else.”

Large snowflakes have begun swirling in the air outside. It’s not supposed to stick, but I’m relieved to see Leo has both hands on the steering wheel all the same. On the dash, his phone rings. He declines it right away.

“Your dad again?” I ask.

“Yeah. He’s nothing if not persistent. He’s called Diane, too, trying to get a hold of me.”

“And you don’t think it would be easier to let him say what he has to say? Maybe then he’ll go away.”

“With all due respect, you don’t know my father. No one does guilt better than old-school Catholics. I don’t need that in my life.”

I watch his profile for a moment. To me, he’s such a self-reliant man that this side of him makes little sense. “I guess I don’t understand why you can’t shrug it off. You’re an adult so he shouldn’t have a say.”

“Like I said, he’s still my dad.” We stop at a light, and he bumps the back of his head against the headrest before looking at me. “I still respect him. He raised me. Taught me about hard work, success, the meaning of family. The way he’s loved and cared for Mom throughout everything… Still does.” He pauses. “What if…” Something’s churning behind his troubled gaze.

The realization hits in his lingering silence. “Oh my God. You believe him. You think you’re disappointing people by being here.”

His jaw works at my words. “No,” he says at first. He runs the windshield wipers once to get rid of a few heavier flakes. “Maybe. I don’t know. I want to be here. But I am uncomfortable knowing he disapproves.”

“But you said he’d come around,” I remind him. “If the store is what you want, tell him that.”

He scoffs. “You make it sound so simple. But I don’t see you going after your dreams of being a designer.”

My mouth snaps shut. “It could be a hobby and nothing more.”

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