“I’m so sorry, Margaret.” I fiddle with the leash; the feeble canine it’s attached to won’t be yanking my shoulder out of its socket anytime soon.
“Oh, dear, don’t worry. Accidents happen. That dog is always putting things in his mouth he’s not supposed to.” Margaret pats my shoulder. I’m the one who should be comforting her, but I have so much guilt for what I’ve done to this woman’s dog, I can’t bring myself to stay a moment longer.
“If you need me to call anyone…” I sniff. “I tried to induce vomiting as much as I could, but I’m not sure it was enough.”
What I don’t tell her is that I spent twenty minutes shoving my fingers down this dog’s throat in an effort to get up every last bit of raw hamburger and Benadryl. I then spent five minutes washing my hands with dish soap, and still the scent of dog vomit wafts in my nostrils.
“Sure, dear. Sure.” Margaret glances down at the small limp body wrapped in a white blanket at her feet. Two paws stick out the front of the lifeless bundle, and it suddenly feels like I’m going to be sick again. “What did you say he got into again?”
“I’m not sure.” I shrug. “Maybe something on our walk, atoxic weed, maybe? I don’t think it was anything from my house.”
She only nods, bends feebly, and strokes one of Charlie’s paws. “My brother-in-law is a veterinarian, maybe I could ask him what he thinks happened.” I see tears hovering in her eyes, and I realize I’ve just possibly snatched away her most loyal companion. Charlie isn’t dead…not yet anyway. I don’t have much faith that he’ll make it through the day with the lethargic way he’s acting. The poor pup can hardly walk and it’s all my fault, and watching her worry is making the sinking feeling in my chest worse.
“If there’s anything you need, I’m always here.” I hum, backing out of her front door. She doesn’t say anything. “And if you need to take him to the vet, just send me the bill.”
As soon as I’m out of her condo and the door is closed, I breathe a sigh of relief. My nerves are ravaged. The guilt of overdosing the woman’s poor dog is more than I can take today. I head back to my condo next door and beeline for the wine rack as soon as I’m inside. I feel like I’m losing my grip on reality, the days stretching slowly in my wine-infused haze. Dean would have known what to do. He knew I liked to slip Charlie a Benadryl now and again to get some peace. He probably would have rolled his eyes at me and then called poison control or performed CPR or started some other life-saving action. That’s Dean, always the hero. Except now. Now, he’s someone else’s hero. And he’s going to be someone’s dad. The thought makes my heart beat fast.
I pour Cabernet and swirl it in the glass, allowing it to breathe and the aroma to fill my nostrils. My nerves relax instantly. Pulling out the barstool, I take a seat at the kitchen island and take my first sip. I enjoy the way the wine heats my stomach. And then I remember the plan I had earlier.
It’s dark, I know that, but I have to use every opportunity ifI’m going to make enough money to live off without Dean’s income.
I pull out my phone, open Instagram, and hit the icon to create a new post.
I locate the photo of Charlie’s fuzzy little paws sticking out of the blanket and add a little filter to make the shadows pop. I hit next on the screen once I’m happy with the adjustments and then hover over the box to write a caption. I imagine the outpouring of love and sympathy this photo will elicit. I have to strike just the right balance of sadness and resilience. First, I lose my husband to cancer and now my precious pooch—it’s almost too much for a woman to bear.
Is it possible to die of a broken heart?I type swiftly.My precious boy is gone but never forgotten—thank you for being such a good friend during the hardest moments of my life. My love picked you out from the litter when you were just a few weeks old. I know now you’re running alongside him in heaven. RIP, Charlie.
I pause a moment, rereading the caption, and then hit submit. My stomach flips as I think of all the attention this photo will generate. The dog may not be dead yet, but I’ll find a way to make it work in my favor. If Dean knew I’d taken a photo of the nearly dead neighbor dog to boost my social media following, he’d call me a psychopath, but he’s always been so quick to judge. Besides, maybe I wouldn’t need to do it if he hadn’t left me to fend for myself. In fact, it’s basically Dean’s fault that Charlie overdosed. If I hadn’t been so stressed and on edge from their happy news, I wouldn’t have slipped up and given Charlie too much Benadryl.
The poor pooch would still be running laps around me if not for my asshole ex and his new bubbly, bimbo girlfriend.
Chapter Eight
“So how was your weekend, Shae?” Kelly Fraser, LLP, has a voice that’s made for psychotherapy. The octave low, the tone soothing as she strings out the constants in her words with slow precision. I wonder if she was born with the ability to speak like this or if it comes with the doctorate. She graduated from Northwestern the year I turned fifteen. I know because I’ve been staring at the degree mounted on the wall above her head once a week since then.
“Shae?” She interrupts my thoughts.
I press a hand to my forehead and feign exhaustion. “My weekend wasn’t great. My neighbor’s dog passed away unexpectedly. I used to take him for walks a few times a week to help her out, but I think those walks helped me out too.” I even conjure a tear for full effect.
“Oh no. What happened?” Her concerned eyes warm as her body exudes pity.
“We’re not sure. It looked like he had a seizure or something. I guess maybe he got into something he shouldn’t have.”
“Ah, poor doggy.” She scratches something on her notepadand then looks up at me. “So, not a great weekend. What about Dean? Have you heard from him at all?”
“Not really. I feel like a little kid in time-out. We hadn’t even been fighting much lately. The way he just announced that he was leaving and then walked out… There’s a better way to break the news than that, isn’t there?” I swipe a tissue from the table and dab my eyes. “Overall, everything was fine. The weekend was fine. I’m just adapting to living alone and being with my own thoughts all the time and trying to stick to my old routines.”
“Maybe call a friend for a coffee date or a hike in the mountains?”
“Maybe.” I appreciate that she’s trying to make me feel better, but it’s not working. Making friends as an adult is hard. Most people have their established friend groups by this age, and since I work from home, I rarely get an opportunity to meet new people. “I had the worst nightmare last night. I dreamed a wildfire was coming down the canyon and everyone else was evacuated in time, but the lock on my door was stuck. I kept trying to get out, tried breaking a window, firefighters were trying to knock down the door, but nothing was working. I literally watched the fire come up my path and engulf the firefighters who were trying to save me. I watched them get burned alive, watched my condo go up in flames and take everything from me…and then right before it consumed me, I woke up.”
“Oh.” She frowns. “That sounds traumatic. Do you think it’s a way for your mind to work out the recent trauma you’ve suffered?”
I only shrug, wondering what it is she’s writing in that little lined notebook of hers. “What are you writing down?”
“Oh.” She squints as she forms her reply. “Just that you’ve been having nightmares.”
“I haven’t been having nightmares. It’s just this one.”
