Meeting Graham and B had quickly become my favorite part of the day over the past two weeks. After the initial awkwardness, post-veering, we were able to fall into a comfortable routine of walking and talking about how we’d spent our evenings and what we had on for the day ahead.
But each day, the moment I saw him and his eyes met mine, his lips moving in a conversation with Brontë that I couldn’t yet hear, my heart sped up and a yearning filled my body so powerfully, I was surprised I didn’t orgasm right there on the sidewalk.
I checked my watch again and pulled my hat lower over my eyes. They were a minute late, which sometimes happened so I didn’t sweat it. I wondered if Marley had called him. Classes were in full swing, autumn had arrived, and every couple of days he told me how she had called on her way to class to tell him some funny incident from the day before, not wanting to forget it, in case he could use it in a story.
“She’s been doing that since I got published,” he’d told me on one of our walks. “Telling me tidbits from her day she found interesting in case they might make it into one of my books.”
“And have any of them?”
“The mom having a meltdown outside her car after dropping her kid off?” he said, waiting to see if I recognized the moment.
“A Day of Firsts,” I said, naming the book it had come from with a laugh. “Really? That came from Marley?”
“My stepmom, Lisa, had dropped her off at school one day and they’d watched another mother completely lose it and?—”
“And then drop her fancy coffee cup in a puddle?”
“Yep.”
It was now eight oh-three. I frowned, leaning to try and see further down the street, but there was still no sight of Graham or Brontë. I wondered if I’d forgotten him say he’d be late today. Or maybe…
I chewed the inside of my lip. There had been a moment the day before when we were at Mornin’ Joe’s. He’d said something sweet and I’d reached out and squeezed his hand. It was brief and totally innocent, but perhaps he’d been put off by it. Despite our moment at my house two weeks ago, we hadn’t veered off the friend path again, save for some heated looks that had caused us both to blush and look away, and a bit of sexual tension. But neither of us had even hinted at crossing the line again, and he’d even gone so far as saying outright that he was glad we’d decided not to indulge in a friends with benefits scenario, which had hurt my feelings just the tiniest bit. Partially because he’d felt the need to warn me off. Partially because I had, in my bed at night, trusty vibrator in hand, entertained the thought.
Eight oh-seven. Fuck.
I was sure he’d said “See you tomorrow?” yesterday as we left the coffee shop.
“What do I do?” I whined out loud. Two women glanced over their shoulders at me as they passed by. Should I text? Potentially coming off as a girlfriend tracking her boyfriend’s every move? Should I just take the walk myself and go home? Or should I stop by his house. Perhaps he and B were just getting a late start and I’d end up running into them on the way?
I nodded. Yep. That’s what I was going to do. But I’d text on the way. In a totally nonchalant way.
My text went unanswered and my ambling turned into strides, my eyes trained straight in front of me as I hurried toward Graham’s house. Was I hurrying because I was worried something had happened to him or B? Or was I rushing because that post by his ex still haunted me sometimes? Either way, there was no sighting of him or Brontë by the time I took the steps two at a time to his front door and rang the bell.
I counted the seconds as I waited for the door to open. I was at one hundred and eighty-three, and clearly moving in to stalker territory when I heard the deadbolt slide open and sucked in a breath at the sight of Graham’s drawn face and red eyes.
“Graham?” I said, and then a feeling of dread filled me and I took a step forward. “Brontë?”
He swallowed, his eyes filling with tears, and stepped backwards, opening the door wider and allowing me inside.
“Is she…?” My voice trailed off.
“Not yet,” he whispered, and took my hand, leading me to the kitchen where his beloved dog lay on her bed, her big brown eyes staring straight ahead.
“Oh,” I said, my voice soft as I let go of Graham’s hand and dropped to my knees in front of her, my own eyes now filled with tears too. “Hey girl.” I took her face in my hands, kissed her nose, and then rested my forehead against hers.
There was the faint sound of her tail thumping twice against the tile floor.
Graham kneeled beside me, his shoulder leaning against mine, his hands replacing mine as he cradled his long-time friend’s head. I wrapped an arm around his back, the other hand petting Brontë, whose breaths were shallow, her eyes now at half-mast.
“You’re such a good girl, Brontë,” I said softly. “Thank you for being so nice to me and letting me hang out with you guys. Even after the terrible way I acted when we met. I’ve had the best time getting to know you, sweet girl. It’s been an honor.”
Graham’s body shook beside me.
“You’re the goodest girl,” he said. “I love you so much. Thank you for hanging in with me, even when I made you live with that whiny monster who wore way too much perfume.” He sniffed. “And the time that terrible dog groomer shaved your hair… you were such a good sport about it, even though I knew you were embarrassed. And the way you followed me around and laid on the bed beside me for weeks after grandma died was worth all of Nadia’s screaming and threatening about hair on the comforter.”
Tears streamed down my face.
“I love you, B,” Graham said. “Thank you for choosing me. I’m going to miss you every day, sweetheart.”
