Page 56 of Love in Training
I nod. “Drew wrapped him in this shirt and leggings getup and played music.” I glance toward the door, where the photo of Kyle and me used to sit and the dog clothes still rest in a neatly folded pile. “But before that, Rufus was hiding under the couch, and...” I exhale. “Drew said it was important not to take away his safe space.”
Lydia hums in approval. “He’s probably right.” She plucks at some of the stuffing spilling out next to her thigh. “How’s the furniture fund? You still working on that Unmatched article?”
The way she asks is so casual. If I didn’t know her well, I might’ve missed her uneasiness altogether.
“It publishes this week,” I say, a knot twisting in my stomach.
She swirls her hands over her belly and releases a low breath. “Okay. Good to know.”
I study her with suspicion. “I swear to God, Lydia, Anton better not be back on that fucking app?—”
“He’snot,” she says quickly. “We’ve talked about it in therapy. And actually—I know this won’t garner sympathy, but his guilt is overwhelming—he realizes he made the biggest mistake of his life when he went on Unmatched. If anything, a new article is going to intensify his shame.” She swallows. “It’s really weird feeling sorry for someone who feels guilty for causing you significant pain.”
I sneer. “Well, I have zero sympathy. He deserves to simmer in his regret. I hope he never forgets he almost lost the best thing he ever had.”
She sighs, arms still wrapped tightly over her rounded midsection. “Well, anyway, thanks for the heads-up. I hope the new article holds the right people accountableandearns you a raise.” She returns to her comfort zone, refocusing on the dog. “Now, what else did Drew Forbes suggest for Rufus?”
My breath stutters. “Um, he didn’t? He left immediately this morning.”
“Oh,” she says, and I don’t miss the way her tone lilts up. “He was here all night?”
There is zero reason I ought to feel anything other than annoyed thinking about that, but my face still heats when she asks. Until I remember his exit. And the picture frame now sitting broken in a drawer.
“It was a really long storm.”
She nods, stroking Rufus’s nose and staring down into his eyes. “Hmm. Well, Drew Forbes’s reputation may precede him. But if he cared enough to stay all night with you and Rufus... I might have to revise my opinion of him.”
CHAPTER
TWENTY
Tuesday evening,after the longest two workdays of my life, I take Rufus for a run. I ended up tethering his leash to the chair in my cubicle on Monday after he helped himself to some cupcakes left over from a birthday in the break room, as well as a reheated slice of pizza Brian brought for lunch. I had to order a whole pie from down the street just to keep him from filing a complaint with HR. Things seemed pretty under control today until Jana, of all people, popped around the side of my cubicle and asked if I could get the dog to stop whining so she could talk on the phone.
This, on top of him shoving his cold nose in my face repeatedly the last two nights, drooling on my sheets, and squeaking until I finally lost it and locked him in his crate—where hestillcried.
He needs activity—he needs to run,stupid Drew Forbes repeats in my head like an obnoxious reminder. So that’s exactly what I’m doing, hoping to give the dog whatever it isheneeds so I can meet my own.
The weather has warmed, making like spring instead of winter again for a few days, and I’m far from the only person in Denver rushing out to soak up the sunshine. But surprisingly,the crowded jogging path doesn’t faze Rufus. He just seems happy, out from under my desk. By the time we complete our final circuit of the park, the dog and I are both panting, but the way he looks at me as we slow to a walk and head home—I’d almost swear he’s grateful.
I grip the leash, and we match pace. I know dogs can’t possibly measure time or track significant events. They remember things, obviously, but there’s no way Rufus could understand that today marks one year since Kyle’s death. Or what that means. He just has one of those expressions that seems like he does.
I take my time returning to our building, stopping along the greenbelt on the way there to do some stretching, loosening up my calves and hamstrings. Now that I don’t have work to distract me, I just want to skip over the rest of today.
I try to center my anxiety on the new Unmatched article dropping tomorrow, wondering if I’ll have to start looking over my shoulder again after it prints. I’m working so hard to focus on this, and the music drumming in my earbuds, that I don’t notice the wall that is Drew Forbes’s chest until I nearly walk straight into it.
“Hi, um...” He trails off when he sees me. And even though he’s literally outsidemybuilding, he is apparently so unhappy to see me, he drops to his knees and greets the dog instead. Rufus knocks his glasses sideways, licking his face like it’s covered in au jus. But I can’t help noting the gray pallor of the man’s skin. The shadows lingering around his eyes. There’s no denying that today sucks for him too.
But why is hehere?
I stand there, waiting for him to finish communing with Rufus, annoyed that his mere presence precludes my own mental escape. Like I needed a living, breathing, bespectacledreminder of the person I’m trying hardest not to think about today.
Finally, he clears his throat and stands, and I wait for him to explain why he chose to further ruin my already terrible day with his appearance.
Without looking at me, he extends his arm, a small brown paper shopping bag dangling from his fingers. “This is for you.”
Wow. I’ve received literal death threats with more enthusiasm. I give the bag a wary glance before taking it, wondering if it’s filled with poison. Or maybe a bomb. I narrow my eyes and reach inside, but what I find is a simple, tasteful wooden picture frame the exact size of the one he dropped. I have to admit, it’s nicer than the original.
I hold the frame a moment, trying to figure out how to make speech work, but Mr. Congeniality beats me to it.
