Page 9 of The Someday Daughter
“It’s okay,” Silas says, though I can’t tell if it’s for my benefit or the dog’s. He looks up at me. “Puddles has some flight anxiety.” She’s pressed against his T-shirt, one of her paws half-tucked into its pocket. She’s the size of a butternut squash andcompletely tubular, as rotund at the front as she is at the back. Every inch of her fur is wrinkled. Her squat black face is silvery and solemn-looking, and as we stare each other down she lets out a demure little burp.
“Why?” is all I can think to say.
“Why what?” Silas adjusts the dog against him, leaning back so one of his shoulders bumps mine. I shift in my seat.
“Why did you bring that here?”
“That?” Silas repeats, hiking his eyebrows so dramatically he looks like he’ll give himself a headache. Next to him, Dr. Stone stifles a laugh. “Sheis my dog.”
He says this like it’s a complete explanation. But we aren’t at a backyard barbecue, we’re in the domestic terminal at LAX with twenty minutes until boarding. We’re at the start of a two-month book tour. I’m at the end of my rope, and he’s going to get all of it.
“Yes,” I say, “andweare working this summer, so why is it here?”
“First of all,” Silas says, turning so we’re facing each other, “itis ashe, and her name is Puddles. Second of all, she’s eleven, and you can’t leave an old lady behind. Third”—he looks down at the dog, rubbing one hand over its grubby head—“she’s incredibly polite and you’ll barely notice her.”
I blink at him. Wild tangle of his hair, hideous rubber hiking sandals strapped to his feet, threadbare T-shirt stretched across his shoulders with a streak of slobber shimmering at the collar. Noisy, vaguely fish-smelling dog already snoring against his chest.This.This is what my summer will be.
“Fourth,” Silas adds, looking back up at me, “we aren’t just working this summer.”
“Excuse me?”
That’s exactly what we’re doing. If I can compartmentalize thissummer, file it away how Ethan did—it’s something tangible for your application—I can get through it. I’m here to learn, to land the ICU position, to stay focused and keep my head down. And Silas should be, too. He’s here with two other rising sophomores from American; they all won some media scholarship to staff the tour. Camilla went to American three decades and a full lifetime ago. She likes togive back to her alma materfrequently and with as much fanfare as possible. Silas is the videographer; there are two others managing photography and digital media who are running so late I’m concerned they’ll miss the flight.
But, no—I’m not concerned. I don’t need to concern myself with anything this summer except studying with Dr. Stone. Dr. Stone, who’s apparently known Silas since he was a kid.
“I mean, weareworking,” Silas says. “But also seeing the country, right? Eight weeks of travel. I couldn’t let Puddles miss out on that.”
Eight weeks. Hearing him saying it out loud turns my stomach all over again. San Francisco, Santa Fe, Austin, Chicago, Denver, Nashville, Miami, Boston, DC. And at the end, a pinprick light in a two-month-long tunnel: Baltimore. My life back. It’s so bleak—so goddamnlong—that I can’t even respond to him. But Silas, apparently, is happy to carry a conversation all on his own.
“Speaking of working,” he says, though I’ve already turned back to my reading, “where’s Camilla?”
“She’s hiding.” I don’t look up. “Probably in the corner of the Starbucks with giant sunglasses on.”
“You riding with her in that lush first-class cabin?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No,” I say, finally looking up at him. “I’m reading, okay?”
“Reading what?” He says it so easily, so casually, that ridiculous dog snoring away on his chest like a baked potato.
None of your business, I want to say. Instead, I bite out, “An article.”
He nods. “Heard of ’em. What’s it about?”
“Is that Puddles I see?” A voice booms through the gate, and we both look up. A short, dark-haired guy in a black Adidas tracksuit is cutting toward us, pushing a silver suitcase in front of him. “My favorite girl?”
The dog starts quivering on Silas’s chest, a full-body tremor that makes her nub of a tail jitter so quickly it practically blurs. The guy scoops her away from Silas and holds her up like Simba inThe Lion King.
“Ravishing,” he tells her. “You look absolutely stunning today. There’s never been a more beautiful pug.”
I’m watching in horror as Puddles licks the guy’s entire face—mouth included—when a girl sidles up behind him.
“Hey.” She swipes one hand over Puddles’s head before dropping into the seat between Dr. Stone and Magnolia. She’s taller than the guy and much more angular, wearing black platform boots and a leather minidress. “Cleo,” she says, nodding at me across Sadie and Silas. She points up at the guy holding Puddles. “And you’ve met Mick.”
“Oh, sorry,” Mick says, finally holding Puddles at a distance so he can see me over her wrinkled head. He’s half laughing, his face wet with slobber. “You’re Audrey.”
