Page 30 of The Ground Beneath Our Feet
“You promise you won’t judge me.”
“I promise.”
She took a deep breath. “Okay. I’ll go upstairs and measure and weigh myself.”
“Good girl.” I picked up a wooden spoon and started stirring the soup. “You willing to go back to that gym?”
“Reluctantly.”
“Tomorrow night, go ride the stationary bike for twenty minutes. I’ll join you the next night. Deal?”
“Deal.”
She looked up at me. “You said to be honest, right?”
“Always.”
“This is either the best idea I’ve ever had or the worst. Either I’m gonna fall in love with you because you give me a new body, or I’ll hate you because you fail and embarrass me.”
I laughed. “So, no pressure.”
But she was deadly serious. “Mikey, I don’t want to be on insulin. I promised myself after I left my doctor that I would really do the changes. I don’t want diabetes. I want to be healthy.”
Sounded like me promising to clean up my act. But other than doing the dishes, I hadn’t done too well with that. I looked at her. “I promise I’ll help you get there.”
The smile on her face was worth it. I’d sell everything I owned to get it, because it looked like hope and the real Jessica underneath the scared exterior. The one with gumption. The one who could tell off opposing counsel.
Yes.
She turned to go up the stairs to record her measurements. “I feel like I need to help you back, though,” she said thoughtfully.
“There’s nothing that you can help me with. I’m all good.”
And I kicked myself for lying to her after lecturing her to be honest.
An hour later, we pulled up in my Subaru at Pacifica Veterinary Clinic, where I worked. On the way over, I’d talked to her about healthy eating and exercise. I loved how she actively participated in the conversation, not passively accepting my suggestions, but challenging me. She was thinking about this. It would work.
The clinic was housed in a low, one-story midcentury modern building next to the train tracks, just a block from the Pacific Ocean. A line of homeless people, at least twenty or thirty, waited for the doors to open to the building next door. Jessica watched intently.
As we walked over to the clinic, a tall, young guy with a man bun opened up the door with a smile. A dark haired woman stood behind him, welcoming in the hungry. Jessica furrowed her brow. “Is that a homeless shelter?”
“Soup kitchen. The shelter is a few blocks away.”
“Do they need volunteers?”
“I’m sure they do. We can go over after we take care of the dogs, and get more information.”
She smiled.
After I unlocked the door to the office, we went to the kennels where we housed the dogs that we boarded. Built in the 1950s, the clinic had easy-to-clean and durable terrazzo floors that saw daily messes for decades. When you set an animal down on the floor, their nails would click. Outside, in the back, we had a penned area for them to get fresh air and exercise.
One by one, we fed them, cleaned their kennels, and took them out.
“You keep these so much cleaner than you do your house,” she muttered.
“Yeah. Remember what you said about it being easier to handle someone else’s affairs than your own?”
“Agreed.”
