Page 61 of Maybe in Another Life

Charlemagne and I rode a city bus today with just a backpack and a smile. We are a team. She is mine.

“I’m not letting her go back to people who mistreat her,” I say. “Not that we could find them even if we wanted to. And I’m certainly not leaving her out on the street or headed to a kill shelter.”

Ethan looks at me. I can tell he understands where I’m coming from but doesn’t necessarily get where I’m heading. “OK...” he says. “So what do we do?”

“I’m going to keep her,” I say. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

She’s not his problem. She’s my problem. I’mchoosingto take care of her.

The parallels do not escape me. And maybe that’s part of the reason I am doing this. Maybe it’s a physical manifestation of what I’m going through emotionally right now.

I have a baby that’s not his. I’m taking on a dog he didn’t ask for. I’m not going to make these things his problem.

“OK,” he says. “Well, she can stay at my place for tonight, and then tomorrow we can figure out a long-term plan.”

He says “we.”We can figure out a long-term plan.

“That’s all right,” I tell him, moving toward my car. “I should sleep at Gabby’s tonight.”

“You’re not going to stay with me?”

I shake my head. “I should really sleep there. She won’t mind Charlemagne for the night.” Yes, she will. Mark is allergic to dogs. Taking Charlemagne back to their apartment is kind of a crappy thing to do. But I need space away from Ethan. I need to be on my own.

“She can be at my place,” he says. “For tonight. Really.”

I shake my head again, moving away from him. I open my car door. I put Charlemagne on the passenger’s seat and shut her in.

“No,” I tell him. “It’s fine. This is the better plan.”

“OK,” he says. He is clearly dejected. “If that’s what you want.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I tell him.

All he says is “Cool.” He says it looking at my feet instead of my face. He’s upset, but he doesn’t want to show it. So he nods and gets into his car. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow, then,” he says out his window. Then he turns on his lights and drives off.

I get into my car. I look at Charlemagne. Suddenly, the tears that have been waiting under the surface all night spring forth.

“I screwed it all up, Charlemagne,” I tell her. “I ruined it all.”

She doesn’t respond. She doesn’t look at me.

“It was all going to be perfect. And I ruined it.”

Charlemagne licks her paw, as if I’m not even talking.

“What do I do?” I ask her. If you were watching us from the outside, you might think I expect her to answer. That’s how sincere my voice is, how desperate it sounds. And maybe, on some level, it’s true. Maybe if, all of a sudden, she started talking and told me what I need to do to fix this, I would be more relieved than shocked.

Alas, she remains a normal dog instead of a magical one. I put my head on the steering wheel of my brand-new used car, and I cry. And I cry. And I cry. And I cry.

And I wonder when I have to tell Michael.

And I wonder when I have to tell Ethan.

And I wonder how I’m going to afford a baby.

And I wonder how I could be so goddamn stupid.

And I wonder if maybe the world hates me, if maybe I am fated to always be screwing up my life and never getting ahead.

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