I SLEPT ON THE FLOOR with Champ that first night after his seizure. He whimpered a lot in his sleep and I wondered if Mom was right, if I should put him down so he wouldn’t have to suffer. But I couldn’t bring myself to do that. So, I fed him his special food and gave him daily pills and slept on the floor beside him night after night until one morning I awoke to his unmoving body lying cold and heavy beside me. He had died in his sleep. My only consolation was that at least he had died with the only person who ever really loved him on the floor next to him.
Regular life continued — I went to work, I put my cheques in the bank, I shopped at Foodland — but I felt as though I were moving under water and whenever I returned to my empty house, I was hit anew with the loss of Champ. I contemplated getting another dog, even another rescue dog, but I didn’t want just any dog — I wanted Champ.
The stupid doggy door reminded me every time I saw it that he was gone. I even missed stumbling across his puddles of pee. Mom tried to cheer me up, but I hadn’t forgiven her for her callous suggestion to put Champ down at the first hint that he was sick. It didn’t matter that she was probably right; I wanted to play the injured party for once and wallow in my self-righteous pity.
IT WAS AROUND THIS TIME, when I was wading through the long, humid days of August, circling aimlessly around a gulf of sadness, that I saw a man at the bank with honey-toned skin and closely cropped brown hair. As I stood in line, waiting to deposit my cheque, I couldn’t help but stare at him. He was strikingly handsome and it had been so long that I’d been interested in anything, I found my curiosity about this stranger behind the counter almost startling. Before I could get a closer look, Mrs. Collins, who had worked at the bank for as long as I could remember, waved me over.
I made my way to the counter, mildly distracted by the good-looking man in a suit. Mrs. Collins took my cheque and my bank book, asking if I wanted any of my pay in cash, oblivious to my racing pulse. Who was that guy?
I pretended to be thinking about Mrs. Collins’ question so I could stand there a few seconds longer, trying to catch another glimpse of the stranger. I think now that what drew me to him so strongly were his eyes. Something about his face emanated kindness, and I believe it was quite simply the warmth in those eyes.
I figured if anyone knew anything about him, it would be Mom. She had a finger on the pulse of the comings and goings in town and loved gossiping about everybody’s business, repeatedly mistaking my quiet indifference for interest. I waited until Sunday to call her so I wouldn’t appear over-eager, then casually mentioned that I’d seen someone new at the Royal Bank.
“The mortgage person? That’s Maureen Dawson’s nephew. You remember Maureen? Her nephew transferred from some other bank about two weeks ago. He’s staying over at the Willow Flats.” There was a brief pause, then, “You should introduce yourself. Offer to show him around. I don’t think he knows anyone else here.”
“He doesn’t know me either! I didn’t even talk to him. I just saw him and wondered who he was. That’s all.”
“You could use somebody your own age to hang around with for a change.”
Point taken. “What’s his name?”
“Ahmad, I think. No wait, that’s not it. Do you want me to ask Maureen —”
“No, Mom. I don’t want you to do anything. I was just curious about who he was.”
If my mom was disappointed by how our conversation ended, she had plenty of cause for excitement later, when Amir and I did meet, quite by accident, and ended up hitting it off. I had stopped at the park near the river, where I still liked to walk along the path that Champ and I had frequented so many times. I was on the swings, lazily rocking back and forth, when Amir came strolling down the path. As he approached the park, he gave a friendly little wave. I hesitated, unsure whether I should wave back and keep swinging or actually introduce myself as per Mom’s suggestion.
“Hi,” I said, hopping off the swing to join him on the path. “You’re Maureen’s nephew, right?”
“Wow, word sure gets around, doesn’t it?” He laughed. “Amir,” he offered, holding out his hand.
I had no choice but to take it. “Zoe,” I said. “I saw you at the bank last week.”
He raised his eyebrows. “I see I have no secrets from you.” Before I could think of something to say to that, he added. “So, Zoe, please tell me: what do people do around here for fun?”
I looked around helplessly. “For fun?” I echoed. “Um, mostly people go to Leeville or Port Sitsworth or Boelen to do stuff. There’s not a lot to do here. In Dunford, I mean.”
“So I’ve noticed. What about for drinks? Is there a good place to get a drink? In Dunford.”
My hands were sweating. “There’s Red Whiskers. It’s a decent bar, but the music can be really loud.” I sounded like an idiot. As if I was too old for loud music and dancing.
“That’s the only place to get a drink?” he asked, his brown eyes sparkling with mock incredulity.
“No. There’s also the King’s Tavern, but it’s usually an older crowd. It has kind of a depressing atmosphere. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
“Okay,” he said, laughing, “Then tell me, where do you go?”
I had two places I liked to frequent, neither of which I’d mentioned because I didn’t think they were the kinds of places he
