A catastrophe plan should offer a clear course of action for the worst-case scenario—for Wag Staff, that would include something terrible like one of the dog-sitters kidnapping a pup, or news spreading that their dog walkers had been abusing their clients. Run-of-the-mill disasters need carefully considered mitigation, but Peter continues to just slap a standard template on it and calls it good.
Even when hedoeslisten to me, it’s just to present my ideas as his own.
“Excuse me?” someone says, and I startle, realizing I’ve spaced out in front of the USPS drop box, and someone is standing to the side, clearly waiting to deposit their mail, too.
Gus’s letter still in my hand. It takes a troubling amount of brain power to make sure I’m sliding the envelope in, and not my chicken wrap.
“Sorry,” I say, stepping to the side and finishing off my lunch. For a second, I stare at the blue metal box, wondering what Gus has asked for in his letter. I should have paid more attention when he was writing it. It’s not like I’ll have a lot of money for Christmas, but I expect Gus didn’t ask for anything too expensive, anyway. For his birthday, he insisted the only thing he wanted was “right” Crayons—just a new box with fresh crayons that hadn’t been used yet.
When my phone buzzes, it startles me again, and I decide I’m going to make sure I go to bed extra early tonight. I’m too jumpy, and that usually happens when I’m not getting enough sleep. I pull my phone from my pocket and look at the screen, my stomach swooping when I see who it is.
Dr. Burch:Just so you know, the offer is still on the table.
Dr. Burch:Please trust that I’ve exhausted all other options, or I wouldn’t be texting you.
Dr. Burch:I’m willing to negotiate.
I stare at the texts, feeling strangely like I’m floating slightly outside of my own body. Am I really considering this?
The day isn’t even half over, and I’m exhausted, brain heavy with responsibility. Thinking about Gus and his surgery, juggling two jobs, even trying to plan for Christmas. To balance making it special for him without digging too hard into my credit cards.
I chew on my bottom lip. It could be just another job. In fact, I reason, it’s less invasive than donating plasma, which is something I did for a few weeks when Gus was a baby, andI really needed money for formula. Before I got the job with Elemint.
“Hello?” his voice is low, rumbles through the phone. He could be narrating a fucking Old Spice commercial. Christ.
“Dr. Burch—” I start, but he cuts me off.
“Juliette,” he says, with a note of realization, then, “One moment?—”
There’s a shuffling noise, then aclicklike a door has shut, muffling the outside world. It makes the call feel private, and I have to gather my courage to pick the conversation up again.
“Dr. Burch—” I start again.
“Please, call me Russell.”
“Okay. Russell. But you have to stop calling me Juliette, then.” My cheeks are flaming. What am I, a teenager?
“Alright. What should I call you?”
“Jules.”
“Okay. Jules. What can I do for you?”
I ignore the shiver that runs through my body at the sound of my nickname on his lips.Jules. The way he says it is perfectly rounded, almost like he’s sayingJewelsinstead. I shake away the image of something precious and force myself to focus.
“I’ll do it.” I hear myself say it, almost like I’m watching a TV show, and I’m the main character. I clear my throat. My heart pounds loudly in my ears. “But Iamnegotiating for more.”
“Whatever you want,” he says, and my mind supplies me with what I want—his strong hand, braced by my head, his body over mine, his heat and the smell of his cedar-y cologne washed around me. The chance to run my nails down his torso, to touch his skin and learn the feel of him.
No, not whatever I want.
“We can talk about it in person,” I say, glancing at the clock in the lobby. I’m going to be late, so I start walking back towardthe elevator. “But just so we’re clear about one thing—you are getting afakeengagement, andfakemarriage. Not a real one.”
“That is very clear, Jules,” he says, and the sound of his voice is making me lightheaded.
“Okay. Great. Talk—talk to you later.”
I end the call and step onto the elevator, heart beating much harder than it should. It doesn’t matter. It’s just a job.
