Sheila raises her eyebrows. “You think? We couldn’t put our finger on it.”
“I think so. I can already tell he’s a major sniff-head.”
Sheila cackles before leaving us to it, letting us know she’ll be at reception.
I almost want to beg her to come back because I don’t want to be left alone with Mae when I have no idea what I’m supposed to talk to her about.
But I resist the urge.
The way Mae crouches down—it makes her sweatshirt rise, and a tiny sliver of midriff shows. I hone in on the smooth skin, jaw popping as I try to yank my gaze away but fail.
I feel like a fucking creep.
We spend the next hour opening up each pen with a green sticker on—indicating the dog is friendly—and giving them the attention they’re desperate for.
I can’t imagine being locked away all day, every day, hoping someone will walk past and notice you. Help you.
I resonate with them in a way. Even as a kid, I was pushed to exhaustion. I’d openly vocalise at football practice how tired of playing competitively I was, hoping for a coach or parent to hear and tell my dad to lay off me, but nobody ever noticed. Or if they did, they decided not to say anything. I was stuck. Trapped in my father’s web he’d so perfectly spun for me.
I lean down to pet the dog Mae’s holding onto, and she laughs, gazing up at me with those big hazel eyes that glisten far too much for their own good.
“He’s not going to bite. He just wants to say hello.”
The big pitbull-looking dog whines, his butt wiggling as his tail swishes from side to side, hitting the side of his plastic bed. It makes a loud thumping sound.
I move into a crouching position, unsure of what to do as the dog crawls over my lap, shoving its snout into the crook of my neck with affection.
It’s wet and slobbery, and I grimace, angling myself so he no longer has access to my clavicle.
Mae stifles a laugh. “I think he likes you. Or he can smell your sweat.”
I grimace mentally. Mae is teasing. I know I don’t smell. I’m freshly showered.
She takes notice of my rigid posture. “You’re not scared of dogs, are you?”
A few days ago, Mae and I barely spoke, and when we did, our words were short and snappy. But it seems that being in the presence of animals has snatched away any negativity from her, putting her in a good mood.
“No. I just don’t want them in every one of my crevices.” I move my hand upwards to pet the dog’s head, his skull round and bulbous under my fingertips.
Mae hums before turning to the dog that trots back over to her and lands in her lap, telling him, “I’ve always wanted a dog, but I have to settle for a tortoise for the moment. I don’t have the time for a menace like you.”
I arch my eyebrows, clicking my tongue as I blink. “A tortoise?”
“Yeah, Chump.” Her eyes snap to mine.
“Chump?”
Who the hell named it that? They deserve to be incarcerated.
Mae doesn’t strike me as the type of girl to have a reptile as a pet, but it dawns on me that I don’t actually know her at all.
And it’ll make things so much easier if we keep it that way.
We settle into silence, nothing but the sound of dogs yipping and the ceiling fan whirring filling the room.
I usually feel so at ease with silence, but for whatever reason, I’m not.
Now that I’ve been in Mae’s presence for a length of time, I begin to take note of every detail of her face. Each tiny freckle. The small dimple beside her lip. The white scar at the tail of her eyebrow, running into her hairline. I try my best not to look for too long, but I can’t help but wonder how she got it. It looks like the injury had been deep.
