Page 70 of An Introvert's Guide to Life and Love
“I do. That’s probably why I feel so strongly about this.” She whips out her phone and shows me the photo on her wallpaper: It’s atiny, fluffy white dog with the most adorable black button eyes and nose.
“Shih tzu?” I hazard a guess.
“Bichon.” She pockets her phone. “His name’s Draco.”
I snort. “Okay, so you’re supportive of my plan. Where did you get Draco?”
She seems suddenly embarrassed. “Oh, it was a whole thing.”
“What? Now you have to tell me.”
“Well.” She’s interrupted by a server who comes up to whisper urgently in her ear. Amanda nods, her face serious and thoughtful. I see the real businesswoman side of her. I wonder what it’s like to be in charge of a place like this—to be in charge of anything, actually. She has authority. She has freedom. She had a vision and brought it completely to life. I’m suddenly, inexplicably, jealous. My job has never required me to have a vision. I’m never expected to be creative, never given any freedom—and besides, what would I do with creative freedom at my job, anyway? Dream up a new format for our spreadsheets?
Amanda is here day and night, consumed by this job—this calling. It reminds me of how I feel about Maeve—not that I want to be a lawyer, but that it has to feel good, in a way, to have to use all of your brain at work, to solve problems and think on your feet and work closely with other people. My job is so sterile. Unimportant. Lonely.
“Send them dessert—chocolate cake—and comp it. They’ll get over it,” Amanda tells her server.
“Thanks, boss.” He glides away, skirting around the bar and in between customers.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“For sure. People will complain about anything. Okay, so, where was I?”
“About to tell me where you got Draco.”
“Right. I actually drove up to Georgia and bought him from a breeder. I paid… a lot.”
I wait a beat, and when she doesn’t add more, I say, “That’s not embarrassing.”
“Maybe not, but in the context of adopting dogs from the shelter, it kind of is. I could have adopted a dog from somewhere local, a dog that they found abandoned on the side of the highway or something, but I really wanted a bichon.”
“And I can see why.” I scoot my now empty plate away from me and wipe my hands on my napkin. “He’s precious.”
“Thanks. But back to your grandpa. There’s a Humane Society not too far from here, in Clearwater. You could try there.”
“Perfect! I guess I’m spending my Sunday looking for a dog. His birthday party’s tomorrow night.”
“Do you want help?”
I tilt my head, caught off guard.
“I have the morning off.” She laughs. “I give myself half a day off every week.”
“Um. I mean I’m sure you have other things to do, but that would be amazing.”
“I would love to. It’s not every day you get to help someone find a dog.”
“Okay, great! I can pick you up in the morning? Maybe ten?”
Amanda agrees, and we exchange numbers.
A couple wanders up to the bar, and Amanda says, “I better go make some drinks. You want another?”
“No thanks, I’m driving. Go do your thing!” I feel warm and fuzzy from the alcohol and the absolutely foreign concept of a new friend. Riding high on these feelings, I impulsively start typing a message to Daniel. I re-read it once, quickly, and then hitSENDbefore I have time to talk myself out of it.
After I pay my bill and head out to the car, Daniel texts me back.
I would love to come to your grandpa’s party. Thanks for thinking of me! See you tomorrow.
