“Yeah,” she says with faltering certainty. “Maybe? It’s possible I was just seeing what I wanted to see, wanting to believe Doop could make Dad better, help him retain his memories. Anything to block out the noise of your jokes and fame and whatever else.”
My body tenses knowing that I brought so much extra stress to CeeCee’s life by using her as fodder for jokes. I know that once she went off to college, I largely stopped considering her. She became a person outside of me. An adult who had her act together and was constantly making me look bad—or so I thought. If this jump has shown me anything, it’s that I didn’t need anyone’s help looking bad, even back then. I was doing a fine job of that on my own.
“I’m sorry,” I choke out.
“It wasn’t you, Nolan.”
“But leaving your wedding? Thatwasme. That’s what got us here, what got me into this mess,” I say, exasperated. Angry that I could unravel not just my own life, but the lives of those around me with one rash decision.
“Like I learned from those damn memory chews, I don’t think you can outrun fate,” she says sagely. “Time has a way of serving you everything you deserve—the good and the bad—no matter what you do to change it or stop it.”
“Are you saying I should just accept that I’m here now?” I ask, the whiplash of it all causing my neck to crick.
She shrugs. “I’m saying you’ve already lost seven years. Don’t waste another second.”
The next day, I call Antoni and have him bring Milkshake to New Jersey.
Imogen’s happy screech can be heard around the world when I introduce the two.
“I have an uncle, and now I have a dog!” she shouts. It warms my heart.
Her excitement renews each time Milkshake’s tiny paws clack across the hardwood floor toward her. Even in the face of Dad’s illness, we all find joy in puppy-Imogen playtime. Squeaky toys thrown and retrieved. Laughs shared by all.
Imogen, curious and precocious, starts keeping a journal of Milkshake’s “business” schedule, and I don’t mean his boardroom meetings over the necessary frequency of treats. She insists on three walks a day, even in the rain, and while she’s not at the level that she can write words just yet, Imogen draws Milkshake’s “business” with crayons and construction paper. It would be concerning if it weren’t so darn cute.
CeeCee says as much on one of our morning walks—Imogen keeping pace with Milkshake up ahead, studying his waddle and mimicking it to the best of her ability.
“Do you think Imogen likes Milkshake more than she likes me?” I jokingly ask.
“Until you grow a tail and a snout, I think that’s a pretty safe bet,” CeeCee says before taking a sip of coffee. I was pleasantly surprised when CeeCee took me up on the offer to join us on our first walk of the day, reigniting my hope that maybe we can find a path back to friendship through all of this.
“I hear they have cosmetic surgeries for stuff like that now,” I say while chuckling.
“Now that I’d like to see,” she says, inadvertently reminding me of the first day I set foot in Drew’s shop when he basically called me a dog, angrily pointing at the sign on the door.
I tell CeeCee about that, and to my delight, she listens. Shelistens so intently that I share all the bits about Drew that I left out of my emails. When I’m done, she offers me gentle, sage advice like she used to.
“You should reach out to him,” she says.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I say, half-upset over Drew and half-thrilled that CeeCee and I are spontaneously having a heart-to-heart after all these years of tension and separation.
“Nolan, he loves you,” she says with conviction, nails tapping against the side of her thermos.
“I’m not so sure,” I say, calling to mind the anger and upset caked across Drew’s face when he left that mammoth Upper West Side apartment the morning of Dad’s fall. Those weren’t the words or expressions of someone in love.
“I am,” she says knowingly. “I’m sure for you.”
Her words make my brain short-circuit. I want to ask what she means by that, but we’re quickly interrupted.
“Uncle Nolan! Uncle Nolan!” Imogen shouts. “Number two time! Number two time!”
“I got it, sweetie,” CeeCee says, pulling a small, pink baggie out of her daughter’s pocket. For the remainder of the walk, CeeCee listens as Imogen details what kind of dreams she thinks Milkshake has at night, little legs moving in a speedy run to nowhere. I hang back, soaking this in.
By the time we return to the house, I’m left wondering why I ever begrudged CeeCee for acting like a second mom when she was clearly just a naturally nurturing person to begin with. Maybe I was looking for an excuse to justify my unwarranted feelings.
Once Milkshake is settled, I call Jessalynn, and after some futile protesting on their part, I fire them.
“This isn’t working for me anymore. I’m sorry,” I say, even if I’m really not. “One day, I hope we can move past this and be friendsagain, but for now, our business relationship has run its course. Thank you for all your work, but I won’t be needing your career guidance any longer.”
