Page 3 of Dear Adam
“Where is Pretzel anyway?” I ask, and then I hear the unmistakable sound of dishes clattering to the floor from inside the house.
“Pretzel!” Mom’s angry voice floats out to us. For a split second, I feel sorry for Pretzel. I’ve been on the receiving end of one of mom’s scolding too many times to count, and they are anything but pleasant. But then I remember the underwear incident and don’t feel as bad.
Mom’s yell rings out again, and I look around to see who’s going to get eyes on the situation inside. Adam is wrestling with my rusty tailgate, muttering something unintelligible under his breath, and Dad and Hudson are practically making googly eyes at each other, talking about their most recent yacht sale, leaving only me to heroically dash inside to try and save Pretzel.
In a hurry, I kick off my white sneakers by the front door, then listen for any more signs of Pretzel wreaking havoc. Another dish clatters to the floor, and my mismatched socks slide on the shiny hardwoods as I dash around the corner into the dining room to find the natural disaster herself, Pretzel, destroying everything in her wake. She’s standing on top of the dining room table, frayed rope dangling from her collar, her face completely submerged into a bowl of buttery mashed potatoes. Fine china is scattered around like hurricane debris, because my parents think it’s a sin to eat off paper plates. Each dish that’s managed to stay on the table has at least one bite taken out of it, leaving nothing salvageable. I hear something gurgling, and tilt my head in confusion when I realize it’s coming from Pretzel, who is blowing bubbles into the gravy bowl with her nose.
And this is why I’m apprehensive to watch Pretzel. I own a flower shop, and I’m terrified of the trouble she could get into during the long hours each day I’m gone.
I’d asked Adam if she’d matured enough to be left alone, and he said yes, but I knew he was lying.
Turns out, based on the scene in front of me, I knew I was right.
“Get thatratoff the dining room table,” my mom snarls, pointing a perfectly manicured nail toward Pretzel.
Adam catches up beside me and we both stare at each other in horror. My mom wails, literallywails,when Pretzel scoots the bowl of green beans off the edge of the table with her nose, and pretends to faint with the back of her hand pressed against her forehead. My dad lets her gracelessly slide to the floor instead of catching her and instead chases Pretzel with the golf club he’s still holding.
They’re having a stare down now. Pretzel has bits of mashed potatoes in the fur around her face, a piece of ham stuck to the side of her snout, and gravy dripping from her nose. Dad has the golf club in his hand, thwacking it into his palm. I feel like I’m watching Monday night football with the scene that unfolds. Pretzel jukes left, Dad jukes left. Pretzel shifts right, Dad does too. This goes on for a solid minute before I realize a five pound dog is faking out my dad, and Adam and I fall over, laughing.
Incredulously, Dad turns to look at us and Pretzel makes her move. She soars off the dining room table…and lands straight on Hudson’s face, who has been staring silently, mouth agape at the whole ordeal. Hudson blindly runs around the dining room, waving his hands in the air, Pretzel holding on for dear life, before running into the wall. He lands with a grunt, and Pretzel hops off, happily trotting down the hallway.
“I should probably go get my dog,” Adam mutters at the same time a choked sob escapes from our mother.
The silence is so thick you could cut it with a blade as we sit around the kitchen table, Italian takeout containers spread in front of us. Dad is holding his plastic silverware with disdain, ineffectively cutting at a piece of chicken parmesan. Mom’s lips are so pursed, they’ve begun to turn white. We’re effectively avoiding eye contact with one another, the scrapes of plastic forks and knives against the plates replacing any kind of conversation. In the dining room down the hall, housekeepers, armed with trash bags and vacuums, are making quick work of the disaster Pretzel created.
Finally, unable to stand the silence any longer, Dad clears his throat and says, “Hudson, I don’t even know how to properly apologize. Had we any idea that dog was such an untrained rodent,we never would’ve allowed Adam to bring her.” He practically spits out the wordsuntrained rodent,and I do my best not to giggle. She’s a five pound wiener dog for heaven’s sake.
A strangled whine comes from the floor below, and I feel a little sorry for Pretzel, who is locked in the downstairs laundry room like a prisoner with no chance of getting out on bail.
“Did you apologize, Adam?” Dad asks. “Maybe Hudson can teach you a thing or two about tying a proper knot in a rope too.” He stares at Adam, disappointment laced with embarrassment etched into every crevice of his face. It feels like we are in high school all over again.
Adam clears his throat. “Yeah sorry about that, Hudson. Pretzel is always a little hyper but has never done anything like that.” The corner of his mouth twitches, and my twin senses tell me he’s secretly pleased with the events of this evening.
Hudson lays a hand on Adam’s shoulder and squeezes it. “It’s okay,buddy,” he says. “Things happen. It’s not a big deal at all.” Adam’s shoulders tense under Hudson’s touch, and his jaw clenches as he fights to keep his mouth in a tight smile.
“Buddy?” I mouth with disgust when Adam briefly meets my eye.
“Adam, why were you putting all of that little rat’s things into the back of Alyson’s sorry excuse for a vehicle?” Dad asks. “Did you finally realize an apartment is no place for a dog?”
“Dad, Adam lives in aloft.And his loft is bigger than my cottage. Just because it’s in a building where other people live doesn’t mean it’s smaller than a house,” I correct.
The noise dad makes in the back of his throat grates my nerves like an eyelash I can’t seem to get out of my eye. Beside him, Mom’s tugging at the collar of her shirt and fanning away at the nonexistent beads of perspiration she wants us to believe have gathered there. The dramatics of this woman. “But no,” I continue. “I’m just watching Pretzel for a few days while Adam goes out of town.”
“Oh yeah?” Dad asks. “Did you request time off?” He leans back in his chair and puts both hands behind his head. His incredibly strong cologne, a blend of musky spice and hundred dollar bills, floats across the table, and I choke back a grimace. He cocks an eyebrow in Adam’s direction, no doubt already thinking he knows his answer.
“No dad, this is for work. I’m selling a fishing yacht to Harry Styles, remember?” Adam’s annoyance is understandable but I can’t help but stare at him, mouth agape.
“Harry Styles?”I squeak out. He didn’t tell methat.
“Harry who?” Mom asks.
“That’s right. I forgot you mentioned going to California to dilly dally with a pop star before you try and sell him a yacht,” Dad scoffs.
Adam throws his hands up. “A sale is a sale, isn’t it, dad? Regardless of who it is? Didn’t you just talk about the importance of closing deals by any means necessary in our last business meeting? You told everyone there that my sales were the worst of any employee this month, and this is going to be ahugedeal.”
“Maybe you should ask Hudson for some pointers. He did just make a sale with Tiger Woods last month after all.”
Of course my dad would think the ultimate celebrity is a pro golfer. Meanwhile, I’m still a guppy out of water with the way my mouth opens and closes, completely shook that Adam is about to meetHarry Styles.Hudson looks like he’s been watching a tennis tournament, his head bouncing back and forth between each of us.
