I want to melt into that. To connect. To know he cares, even though he’s gone.
Nothing comes out my mouth. I stare at Grace. She’s pretty. Like prettier than Mom. Young-looking. Asking Dad with her eyes why his kid is staring at her like she has three heads.
Dad glances at her and then back to me. “It’s not what it looks like,” he says in a low voice, too quiet for her to hear. “She’s my coworker. She’s having a rough time with her kid and needed somebody to talk to. That’s all.”
My eyes move to the box of tissues on the coffee table. To the crumpled tissue in Grace’s hand. I look at her eyes again. Not puffy like allergies. Puffy like tears. Her nose is faintly red.
But they’re watching Mad Men. On Dad’s couch.
Grace stands and brushes off her black jeans. “I need to be getting back,” she says to Dad. “I’m sure Mason has the sitter tearing her hair out by now. Thanks again, Luke.” She picks up a set of keys on the table by the door. She nods at me and Ash, then steps out and closes the door behind her.
I watch Dad’s face as the door closes. Is that disappointment? Frustration?
He looks at the dog in my arms. “So. You biked fifteen miles here and you brought a dog. I suspect I’m about to be asked a big question.”
“Tina found her,” I say. “Um—the lady at the kennel. A vet tech. Who works there.” My brain is scrambled eggs. “Um, the dog was in the woods at the—behind the kennel. There’s like a patch of woods back there past the field.” My throat’s doing the thing it does right before I start crying. Maybe if I talk faster I can stay ahead of it. “She’s a stray. The dog I mean. And Tina’s daughter got in a car wreck, so Tina had to leave and I said I’d—I would—” I push Chewbarka into Ash’s arms. “I gotta pee,” I blurt, and stumble down the hall. I close the bathroom door as Ash launches into the story we came up with.
The flood of tears that comes out my face is like the blorp of Mitchell debating. Like barfing. Like an earthquake. It’s fast and intense and it’s hard to keep it quiet. I sit on the edge of the tub, pull a towel off the hook, and shove my face in it to muffle the sounds.
The towel smells like Dad’s aftershave.
I throw it into the tub and finish my stupid meltdown with my fist jammed against my teeth. It doesn’t take long to finish crying. But as soon as the last sob shakes its way out, guilt hits like a truck.
I lost it again. At a really freaking bad time to lose it.
I press my forehead to my knees and close my eyes and fantasize about living without being ashamed of this. Without constantly needing to apologize for feeling too hard. Without beating myself up every single day for having Big Huge Hairy Heinous Feelings. I wish so hard that people could cry whenever we need to and then get on with the day. Like sneezing or burping or getting the hiccups. A bodily function.
Maybe that’s how it is in some other universe. Where dogs are in charge instead of humans. Dogs just feel what they feel. They’re straightforward. They don’t bother with guilt for being scared during thunderstorms or peeing when they can’t help it or stealing every last bit of your heart.
I splash cold water on my face. It occurs to me that when I see Mom later today, it’s going to feel like lying to not tell her about Grace.
But there’s no way to tell her about Grace without telling her I came here. No way to tell her I came here without bringing up the dog. No way to explain the dog without disastrous consequences. For Chewbarka. For Tina. For me.
There’s no way to make this easier.
Except . . . well. Ash is here.
Ash who cares about this messed-up dog as much as I do. Ash who doesn’t mind my meltdowns. Ash who’s patient and funny and smart and kind and fiery and the best sort of surprise.
I’m not alone. She’s here with me.
It sucks that she’s gone through so much. All the bullying, being sick, her parents splitting up, having to move—it’s so much.
But she’s okay. She went through all that and she’s okay. Maybe not as happy as she could be, maybe with a little less faith in humanity. But she can still laugh and draw snores and joke about mutant zebra-platypus dogs and help me with Chewbarka.
She’s brave enough and strong enough to keep going, even after all that.
I dry my face on Dad’s aftershave towel, hang it up, and leave the bathroom.
15
Bargain
Ash
I want so bad to follow Daniel down the hall, since he’s obvs two seconds from meltdown, but here I am holding this dog with Mr. Sanders looking at me all kinds of confused and upset and somebody’s got to start explaining, so here we go.
I tell him the story we came up with. While I talk, I try to yank myself out of dude mode and back into girl, because I don’t know, maybe that will help since Daniel said his dad wanted a daughter? But it feels so wrong after the gas station. Like those few minutes wearing Daniel’s hoodie flipped the switch for good, and now I’m wearing someone else’s ill-fitting clothes, someone else’s broken-in shoes. I feel wrong in my skin.
When I finish explaining and ask if he’d maybe be willing to take the dog just till Tina gets back, Mr. Sanders looks at the closed bathroom door like he’s more worried about Daniel. “Did he try to call Tina?”
“He’s been trying to reach her on social. No answer. I guess she’s pretty preoccupied with her daughter and all.” I
