Page 41 of Love in Training
Drew brought his linen napkin to his mouth, debating what to share while he finished chewing. Family dinner had felt like a dismal farce for the last eleven months. Kyle had stopped coming years ago, but it was a new level of dysfunction that they could still sit here with his empty chair, going through the motions, when he would never join them again.
“Well, I was...” He couldn’t bring himself to mention Rufus, and certainly not Caprice Phipps. But when he thought about his business, the one he ran because of Kyle, exciting thingswerehappening. “Actually, I was invited to speak and do a few demos at a convention last weekend,” he said, clearing his throat.
Both of his parents perked up, focusing immediately on him. Which he honestly hadn’t expected. But maybe they’d finally had a change of heart a year after losing Kyle. He held his breath, offering up a little more.
“It was a major industry event and turned out to be great exposure for the training center. Our phone has been ringing pretty steadily ever since.”
The Forbeses shared a look—surprise, understanding, followed by tolerant bemusement. And in that moment, Drew realized he’d read them wrong.
Dr. Patricia Forbes brought her napkin to her mouth, covering an indulgent smile. “Oh, Drew, we thought you meant amedicalconvention, of course.”
His back hit his chair as he went over his own words. Finally, he managed a strangled chuckle. “Of course.”
He fixed his eyes back on his dinner plate, one his mother had always deemed “for the children” because of a tiny chip in the porcelain rim.
“It’s nice that you can fit in some recreation before your return to medicine,” his father said, neatly cutting him down while somehow also sounding generous.
“Yes,” Drew said. “It’s nice.”
He gripped his own knee under the table since there was nothing else to reach for. His brother was dead. And dogs were not allowed at family dinner.
“You know, I read an interesting orthopedics study out of Johns Hopkins this week...” Dr. W. Andrew Forbes said, changing the subject.
Drew remained in his chair, dutifully cutting his food and nodding, making himself appear riveted by his father’s monologue. A skill he’d been honing since he was ten.
His PetExpo talk on behavior analysis in training had been attended with standing room only. He and Blitz had brought home several agility and obedience awards. And just last week, K9 Academy had received a covetedBest Of Denverdistinction.
But he might as well have told his parents he’d spent the weekend scrubbing toilets.
He closed his eyes, hoping to channel his brother, who had somehow managed not to care whether they approved of his choices or not.
Or maybe he had.
By the time the senior Forbeses concluded a highly intellectual debate regarding possibilities in joint replacement that would have bored the Colorado Medical Board, Drew looked down to find his chipped plate empty. He excused himself to clear the dishes, passing up an after-dinner cocktail so he could sink his arms into soapy, scalding water and feel his skin burn.
But as he stood alone in the kitchen, studiously washing and drying the silver and china, his mind wandered back to Rufus. It killed him, not even knowing what the dog was struggling with. He could guess PTSD of some kind, but how did it affect him? What were his triggers? Loud sounds were a safe bet, but there could be sights, smells, or situations that bothered him. And what would his new “owner” do about it? Other than try to drug him so he wouldn’t cramp her lifestyle.
Hehadbeen watching her at the park. He hadn’t meant to scare her and felt awful about it now. He just needed to know how Rufus was doing. It was obvious she had no idea what to do with him. He just couldn’t understand why she was so determined to keep him.
For the thousandth time that year, he wondered what the hell Kyle had been thinking. Why do this to RufusorCaprice?
A soapy crystal goblet slipped out of his hands, shattering into somewhere near a million shards all over the travertine floors.
He exhaled. It felt like he’d been holding his breath a year.
“Well, that’s why you didn’t become a surgeon,” his mother tsked, surveying the broken glass from the doorway.
Drew frowned as she crunched across the floor to retrieve the broom and dustpan.
“Mom, let me?—”
“I’ve got it.” She brushed him off. “You think I’m afraid of a little mess after raising two boys?”
His throat felt thick.
She looked at his face and hummed, sweeping the glass into a neat pile and dumping the shards in the trash. “There. Some things are easy to fix.”
He didn’t point out that the glass wasn’t fixed. Now it was just missing.
