When I was sixteen, my father told me that I'd squander the family fortune if I kept pursuing art and travel instead of settling into a standard college path. His disappointment and hostility that day still bothered me two years later. But Zandra had seen a kid get violently attacked by a dog and she'd overcome her justified fears within a matter of minutes.
It wasn't just courage, it was resilience. The world could hurt her, but she knew she didn't need to carry on her injuries forever.
I took the coffee and the paper bag with two éclairs out to her. She returned to glaring at me.
"I should hate you," she said, trading the puppy for a coffee and the paper bag. I sat down on a bench outside of the cafe with the puppy on my lap and Zandra sat beside me, despite the fact that she should hate me.
She took a sip of her coffee and let out a contented sigh. "I'll pay you back when we get back to the hostel."
I handed her the puppy to distract her. She tensed for a moment, but as the puppy settled on her lap, she exhaled with the most genuine smile on her face. Zandra didn’t try to touch me. She didn’t give me lingering glances. When a dab of whipped cream lingered on her mouth, she wiped it away with her finger instead of her tongue, and somehow it was more insanely hot than anything overtly sexual.
I wanted to feel her body move under me, but more than that, I wanted her company, her secrets, and her passion. I would give her anything she wanted in return. I just needed to convince her that I was worth keeping around.
I’d amaze her. I’d leave enough of an impression that whenever she thought of Paris, she’d think of me. I’d ensure that if we never saw each other again after this trip, I’d be her biggest regret.
Chapter 3:
Zandra
When I walk into the 2Resonance building, John is waiting at the front desk. He's wearing similar clothes to what he was wearing at my interview, but I nearly miss him because he's casually leaning against the counter and almost smiling. He's talking to the receptionist, a short man with a bleached blonde mohawk. As the receptionist's gaze shifts to me, John turns around.
"Miss Nowak!" he calls out with more enthusiasm than he ever showed during my job interview. "Welcome to the home base of our company. Unfortunately, we're immediately leaving."
Somebody must have released opium into the air or some other chemical that could explain his change in behavior.
"Are we evacuating?" I ask. He gives a short laugh, though it borders on being condescending.
"No, no. It's Community Day. We do it once a quarter. All of the company’s employees go to the same place to volunteer for a single charity or a non-profit organization. I figured this would be a good way for you to get to know everybody. This will be an enjoyable one for you. This organization takes in retired service dogs.”
My childhood anxiety shoots through me, but I take a deep breath. Since Mark and Petit—the best puppy in the world—I’d slowly gotten less afraid of dogs. I pet them instead of crossing the street when I see them and the sound of barking doesn’t make me panic, but I’m not certain how this will unfold when I’m in a building filled with older dogs.
He gestures toward the door. He doesn't appear to be a dangerous junkie, so I walk out while he follows me. He pulls out a remote car starter. A gray SUV beeps. He indicates for me to get into the SUV. I stop at the edge of the sidewalk.
"You seem a lot different from when you interviewed me," I mention, trying to keep my tone casual.
"Yes, well," he says. "We're going to a building filled with dogs today. When we met, I'd interviewed enough people to consider that humanity was a mistake. And now you're part of my staff and, in accordance with my agreement with the company, I must treat you like you're part of my family. I suspect they word it that way to deter employees from romantic relationships with each other."
"Oh," I say, walking over to the passenger side of the car. "I wouldn't ever date one of my co-workers. Relationships are stressful and I wouldn't want that impacting my work."
"That's the exact attitude we need," he says, opening his SUV's door. "I just hope you're open to some friendships because we need you to be part of the team."
"Of course, definitely." I turn away from him as we both get into his SUV, so he can't see I'm cringing over my inability to bite my tongue.
John keeps a casual tone as he drives, but it's difficult to not see him as the man who interviewed me for this job and I desperately need to impress. I settle for keeping my answers short while immersing myself in the beauty of San Francisco.
The waterfront and the palm trees create an idyllic background while the street performers and shops decorated with peace signs and rainbows add a sense of celebration and spunk. It's not idyllic in the way that retirees in Florida enjoy, but it's serene in the way it doesn't demand attention or think too highly of itself. When John turns, the view is overtaken by old Victorian buildings. The array of colors—from olive green to pale pink—is so beautifully artistic, I have to stop a compulsion to tell John to park nearby, so I can paint it. I'd mostly stopped painting anyway since Tom told me I should focus on a hobby that would be profitable.
When he slows down and parks, I'm surprised to see that the building is simple—rectangular and made of brick. The only aspect of it that stands out is the dog prints painted on the wall, forming the words,Katharske-Jones Dog Rescue.
When John and I enter the building, a mixture of deep, sharp, and frantic barking is echoing inside of it. I tense, but I don’t see any dogs. The room looks like a waiting room with rows of chairs pushed up against the wall and a desk with a glass barricade around it at the opposite side of the room. John leads me toward the desk before taking a left turn toward a large metal door. We go through the door and the barking becomes infinitely louder.
The dogs are running free.
Granted, it’s a massive room—about the size of a high school gym—and at least twenty employees are playing with the dogs, but I’d assumed they’d be in cages like the movies portray for dog pounds.
“Hey, John.” A woman wearing jean overalls over a tie-dye shirt walks up to us. “Angela wanted to talk to you about the social media posts.”
“Right. Zandra, this is Julietta,” He gestures between the two of us. “I’m sure she will introduce you to a few people.” He walks away from us, heading toward a redheaded woman.
