I grimaced. Busted.
“Not… exactly.”
He raised a brow as he sipped his shake.
“I’m sorry. I’m fucking up your lunch,” I said, wrapping up what was left of my sandwich. “I should leave you alone.”
He held up a finger. “I have two or three bites of sandwich left.”
I shifted uncomfortably, then leaned forward, curious about what he had to say.
“Now, we’ve talked in the past about the dogs your family raised and fought. Did the dogs start off mean? Like, you saw them as puppies. Were they mean back then?”
I shook my head. “No. They were sweet. Until they weren’t.”
“So, they were sweet, and they suddenly turned mean?” he asked, leading me. Again, annoying as fuck.
“No. My father always gave them over to my uncle. When they came back, they had scars and tried to bite anything or anyone that came close, save for my uncle and father.”
“And the worst part for you is that you had to care for them, correct?”
I nodded again with that quiet sense in the middle of me. “Yeah.”
“So, you started off caring for sweet little puppies, and then they all came back dangerous animals.”
I nodded. “I got a couple of really nasty bites and some close calls.” Gesturing to my tattoos, I continued, “Most of these I got to cover up the worst of the scars.”
“Now take that feeling of knowing you can no longer trust a dog you helped raise and hold it in your chest,” he said, knowing that’s where I carried all that negativity. After a few moments, he asked, “Can you see it clearly?”
I took a breath and did as he asked, pulling up the picture of it far too easily. “Yes, I can see it. And feel it.”
I curled my hands into fists
“Now, I want to show you a picture, okay?”
I nodded.
“Open your eyes, Gideon.”
Not realizing I’d closed them, I let them drift open. Jackson was holding his phone up in front of me, and I laughed. It was a picture of the world’s ugliest, dinkiest mutt. Tongue hanging out of its mouth, eyes looking at two different continents. This dog was the opposite of every fearful encounter I’d ever had with dogs.
“Oh my God, that is a fucking ridiculous dog.”
“Would it surprise you to know that this is Dr. Fellows’ dog?”
My laughter died a quick death. I grabbed his phone, staring at the picture. “Are you serious?”
All I’d seen was a vicious poodle-type dog. I hadn’t been able to take in the details.
Jackson reached over and zoomed out on the photo, revealing that this gloriously ridiculous mutt was sitting on Alfie’s lap in a totally serious Sears portrait-style photograph. Alfie’s eyes sparkled with mirth, and the damn dog—Dame Judi Dench, of all things—looked like the happiest, goofiest soul on the entire planet.
“She’s so much smaller than she seemed yesterday.” I shook my head. “I can’t believe I had that reaction to this dog.”
“I can. She’s a dog. That’s all your hindbrain saw. But you didn’t have any choice over that interaction. She got away from her handler, and that dog would’ve seemed to you like the biggest, most tortured pit bull you’d ever seen, right? Didn’t she feel dangerous?”
My eyes dropped to the desk. After a moment, I nodded.
He flicked my hand. “Hey, look at me.”
