Page 27 of Love in Training
“Getoff,” I order, pointing to the floor.
Immediately, he does exactly what I say, leaping lightly from the bed and coming to stand in front of me.
I straighten in surprise. “Um . . . good boy?”
This is where Lydia would probably tell me to give him a reward. I applaud myself for thinking of it and grab the last couple cheese treats from the counter. Guess I should walk him and see if her delivery arrived downstairs.
But first, I stumble over to my coffeemaker. It was a long night. I must’ve fallen asleep eventually, but I laid awake until at least one a.m. brainstorming questions for my interview today, and listening to every sound the dog made, terrified he was going to sully my floor again. I got up and walked him sometimearound midnight, but all he did was lift his leg on a tree. So while the coffee machine fills my mug, I feed him and pull on clothes.
Lydia gave me a tongue-lashing about taking him out—not that I needed it after that cleanup—and made me set alarms on my phone so it wouldn’t happen again. The first one is set for seven a.m., and we’re outside before it goes off. After Rufus has done what he needs to do (picking up solid poop, while still disgusting, beats wiping its liquid form off my floor), I head back inside to assemble an outfit and work on my hair.
“Mrs. R.” wants to meet at ten o’clock a.m. at the Fillmore Hotel in Cherry Creek. Not exactly a casual venue, and I’m getting a clear sense the woman herself isn’t either. Which shouldn’t make me uncomfortable. Except the Fillmore is exactly the sort of place Kyle and I used to land with his parents back in high school, sitting through hours-long dinners as they highlighted his flaws and demanded he shape himself to their expectations. He’d started inviting me along hoping to get his parents to tone it down. Unfortunately, that was not the effect. While the Doctors Forbes didn’t overtly object to my presence, they made very clear that I did not, nor would I ever, belong.
I select a wool cowl-neck dress because it’s still chilly out and decide to stick with the sleek ponytail I’ve been wearing most of the time since I relaxed my hair. Once I’ve contoured and perfected a daytime cat eye, I shoot Rufus a glare and slip into a pair of Jessica Simpson pumps in lieu of my destroyed Louboutins. He watches me without a sound until I grab my purse and notebook off the counter. Then, heeding Lydia’s instructions, I use a couple of treats to lure him into the ugly crate next to my bed. He issues one low groan and starts panting as I close him inside, but that’s all. At least what’s left of my apartment will be safe while I’m gone.
On my way down to meet my Uber, my phone pings with a text.
Theo
I’ll be out of service at least a week starting tomorrow. You still have the number for my friend in Colorado Springs?
I’m not calling the dude with the skull tattoos.
Theo
Dwayne’s a good guy. He would help, no questions, if you needed anything.
How was Mom?
Theo
Annoyed she hasn’t seen you for a month.
On my to-do list. Right below fifty other things.
Theo
Think I’d rather track down terrorists than ask about that.
How’s it going with our furry friend?
I pause a moment, briefly considering inundating him with poop emojis and pictures of my desecrated couch. But I don’t want to stress him out or give him more to worry about if he’s getting ready for a mission.
Lydia has been super helpful.
I’m down a pair of shoes, but he seems to be settling in.
The lobby of the Fillmore Hotel in Denver’s Cherry Creek North neighborhood is one of those spaces that clearly had considerable styling put into it, and the result feels effortlessly elegant. There’s no flashy branding or over-the-top decadence. The colors are muted, the woods and fabrics of the furniture are high quality, and the spaces are illuminated without the lighting itself being a feature. The overall effect is understated luxury. As soon as you walk in, you can tell you’re in a place for people who have money, who don’t need to wave it around just to let everyone know.
“Hi,” I say to a prim middle-aged woman behind the front desk. “I’m Caprice Phipps. I’m here for a meeting with um... someone in room 211.”
She does a five-second assessment of me as she glances up. I know she can’t possibly read the labels of anything I’m wearing or guess the balance of my bank account, but that doesn’t stop my palms from sweating like she’s a bouncer who might deny me access to an exclusive club. My skin prickles when I look around and find I’m the brownest person in this lobby.
“Ah, yes,” she says. If there’s any layer of judgment, she hides it well. “We were told to expect you, Ms. Phipps. If you’ll follow me...”
She glides from behind the desk, clicking across the hardwood in a gorgeous pair of Manolos without looking back. So I click along after her in my Jessicas. It’s a quick elevator ride to the second floor, and before I know it, she knocks once on a door halfway down a wide hall.
We are greeted almost immediately by a middle-aged blonde woman with a wide smile. She passes a cash tip to the conciergewith such subtlety I almost miss it. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Phipps. Please, come in.”
