The subway car is packed, but I manage to catch my reflection in the window—curls wild, lips still slightly swollen, looking exactly like what I am: a girl doing the walk of shame.
Keesha’s in her usual position on the sofa when I enter, staring at her computer screen. She looks up at me, her chocolate brown eyes sparking with curiosity.
“Thank God you sent that email saying you were okay.” As always, her tone manages to be both relieved and disapproving. “And here I was thinking Zaza was teasing about your birthday man.”
I drop my purse, avoiding her gaze. Our pristine kitchen smells of strong Ethiopian coffee. “It’s not what you think.”
“No? Then what is it? Is this cousin even real?”
“Yes,” I lie uneasily. Then I meet Keesha’s unwavering eyes. “No. But I made up the story because I needed to be alone. To celebrate with Hilary,” I say quietly.
She nods, seeming glad to have the truth out in the open. “But then what?”
I exhale. This is why I didn’t want to have a roommate. Hilary never quizzed me like this. But then again, Hilary and I went everywhere and did everything together.
“I did meet a man, though I didn’t plan to. I spent the night with him. And that’s all I’m going to say about it. I’m here. You can see I’m alive. End of story, okay?”
I go to the bedroom we share.
Keesha follows me.
“That’s not like you.”
She’s right. It’s not like me at all.
I’m the sensible one.Wasthe sensible one.
“People aren’t always what they seem,” I say, turning to her. “Sometimes they surprise you.” That explanation feels inadequate. “This is my first birthday alone,” I add after a moment.
“I understand,” she says, nodding. “I have coffee on the stove. Can I get you a cup?”
“That would be great.”
Twenty minutes later,I’ve shifted gears, preparing to collect my canine clients. Though I have to get going early, my summer job as a dog walker is great.
It gives me lots of free time to compose lyrics and melodies in my head, then jot them down in my notebook.
And I do it all while walking the tree-lined pathways of Central Park. Lots of folks who put money into my hat as I sing also walk their dogs through the park.
So my daily rounds are like hanging out with family and friends.
Since the weather is sunny and warm, I choose a lightweight sundress and top it off with my signature strands of pearls. They’re not real, but no one has to know that.
Then I grab my dedicated fanny pack filled with spare leashes, poop bags, and treats and head out the door.
Today’s clients include Winston, a golden retriever who thinkshe’s a lapdog; Princess, the neurotic Yorkie; and Thor, a Chihuahua with delusions of being a German Shepherd.
I pick them up one by one and find that they’re exceptionally energetic today, like they can smell that something’s different about me.
And it's not just the spice from the noodle shop that won’t wash out of my hair.
We get underway, and fellow dog walkers nod as we pass, just living their normal lives—like I was, twelve hours ago, before meeting Sam.
“Hey, pretty girl!”
It’s Mr. Harrison, one of my best clients, looking crisp in his banker suit.
Thor yaps at him, protective as always, and I offer a friendly wave.
