“Go to bed. I can hear how exhausted you are.”
I can’t even argue with her. “Okay. Goodnight, Scarlett.”
“Goodnight, Nico,” she says sweetly.
TWENTY-SIX
SCARLETT
Texting Nico is easier than I anticipated.
What I didn’t anticipate was how often the urge to texthimwould hit.
For the past week, we’ve been texting about the most random things. Our favorite movies, biggest pet peeves, which celebrities we’d invite to a dinner party. He asks me questions I’ve never even thought about.
I love it.
I find myself jumping for my phone when it vibrates. I love getting to know these pieces of Nico, and I love that he cares enough to learn them about me. I answer every question he asks, the need to connect with him now too great to hold back.
He keeps the conversations surface level, though. He even stays away from asking me if I’ve made a decision about coming to his fight. I think he senses that while me giving him my number—and full name—is a big deal, I’m not quite ready to divulge all of my secrets. Yet.
I’ll give him the rest of me for now.
The day before Nico’s fight, I wake up more restless than normal. It’s been over a week since I’ve seen him, and I thinkit’s affecting me. Without a scheduled date with him on my calendar, I’m lost in myownlife. And the emptiness is wearing on me.
It’s early, too early, so I jump into a five-mile run on the treadmill. Soon, that restlessness I’m feeling turns five miles into eight. By the time the runner’s high dies down, I’m drenched in sweat and starving.
I eat more than I usually would. With Nico’s nutrition advice ringing in my brain, I go to a nearby diner to order a breakfast sandwich instead of making my usual eggs and black coffee. And on the walk home, I stop for a parfait at my favorite coffee house.
Whether it’s the restlessness or the added calories, by the time I get home, I’m itching with the need todosomething. I have six hours before my client appointment tonight.
An hour later, I’m back at the shelter where Nico and I volunteered.
“Hi there,” says the front desk lady with a big smile. “How can I help you today?”
“Uh, I’m not really sure,” I answer nervously. “I volunteered a few weeks ago and really enjoyed the experience, so I guess I’m back to see if I can help again.”
She beams at me. “Well, we love to hear that. I can share your options with you, if you’d like.” When I nod, she starts to list them off.
“It all comes down to your time commitment and experience level, really. You can either apply to be a foster parent?—”
“I don’t think I’m ready for that,” I interrupt with a wince.
“That’s quite alright, dear, plenty of people start with simpler options. You could take on more of an admin role, helping during our events or assisting foster parents with calling references and vets and things.Oryou could apply to transport animals, or take them out for a day to get out of the shelter, or you could even just play with them out back?—”
“That. That I can do.”
When she gives me an amused smile at the outburst, I blush. “Sorry, I just don’t have that much experience with dogs. I wouldn’t trust myself to take them out of here.”
“Perfectly understandable. And any little bit of help is monumental for the dogs, so we’ll take anything you want to give us. Do you have some time now? I can take you in the back to pick out an afternoon play buddy.”
I deflate in relief. “That’d be great, thank you.”
When we walk through the kennels, it’s a small pitbull that catches my eye. He looks so sad and so harmless that I feel comfortable taking him out back to the fenced in area by myself.
The front desk lady hands me a tennis ball and says, “He might not do much with it, but here you go. Have fun!”
She’s not wrong. When I throw the ball, he stares after it for a moment, then gives me a side-eye and sits onto his haunches.
