The second it leaves my mouth, I wince internally. Could I get any lamer?
Why not just confess I used to kiss my posters goodnight while I’m at it?
Another whine hits my ears, soft, dramatic, and absolutely judgmental. Like someone muttering ‘don’t encourage him’ under their breath. I bite back a smile.
“Power Rangers is my jam,” Beau says, completely unashamed.
“Hey, I get it,” I say, lifting a shoulder. “Up until a year ago, I had a collection of Care Bears from when I was a kid. I had to give them away.”
The words come out lighter than the ache behind them.
“Too much upkeep, and… I couldn’t see them anyway.” Why am I telling this guy these things? I hear Beau shift, then his small intake of breath, like he wants to say something comforting but isn’t sure how.
The dog gives a low, sympathetic rumble that vibrates through the air and into my ribs.
The heaviness in my chest deepens. I told Meemaw to get rid of the Care Bears, and now the regret sits under my sternum. Even blind, I could’ve known each one just by the shape of their bellies. I used to trace the stitched symbols with my thumbs when I couldn’t sleep. Their plush fur, slightly faded and rough from years of being piled into bed with me as a child and a teenager. Okay, and as an adult. Don’t judge me.
I shouldn’t have let them go. I shouldn’t have let any of it go.
Piece by piece, I’d stripped my life down. First the bears, then the furniture, then all the little things that made my home feel like mine. All of it sold or donated, replaced with objects chosen for practicality, not memory. Things that didn’t remind me of the woman I was before the accident. I told myself it was a fresh start, a clean slate, but sometimes it feels like I erased myself instead.
Talking to a stranger I won’t even let inside my home is somehow pulling thoughts into the open that have no business creeping in. Things I usually keep shoved down deep where they can’t sting.
Warm fur nudges against my hand. Not demanding or pushy. Just there. Like he can sense the shift in my mood
The touch is so grounding that my throat tightens. God, how does he do that? How does he know?
Time to end this. If I don’t cut the conversation now, nostalgia’s going to drag me under, and I’ve already lived in that darkness long enough.
I straighten, pulling a breath into the sore edges of my lungs. “Is there anything I can help you with, Beau?”
“Uh… yeah… my dog hasn’t been able to settle since yesterday,” he says. “Won’t stop whining. Won’t eat. Just kept dragging me back this direction.”
Did the dog feel the connection the way I did?
“I can’t tell you how much comfort your dog brought to me,” I say, and the words feel too big, too honest, spilling out faster than I can filter them. “I was going to get hold of the sanctuary to see if I could find out what happened to him. He took off, and I was worried he’d get lost.”
As I say the words, I’m hit with the realization that my dog belongs to someone else. A little weight settles low in my stomach, heavy and stupid.
“I’m so glad you came,” I add, trying to keep my voice steady. “It’s a relief to know he’s okay. I also wanted to give him a reward. If you wait here, I’ll get my purse.”
I step back, ready to turn, but Beau blurts, “Oh no, ma’am. We didn’t come here for that.”
“Violet.” The correction snaps out of me sharper than I intended. It’s stupid, but I’ve already lost so much of my identity that I don’t want to be just a blanketma’am.
“Violet, gotcha.” His tone warms. “We didn’t come for a reward. It’s… uh… Jason here has been in my care until we found a match for him. He’s a big wol—dog, and some folks are nervous because of his size. But you didn’t seem bothered by that at all.”
Hope blooms in my belly so fast it burns. A bright, stupid, impossible spark flares before I can stomp it out. But hope is dangerous for me, so I swallow hard and focus on the words, not the feeling clawing at my ribs.
Wait.
Did he say… Jason?
I blink. “Jason?”
“That’s his name.”
A smile slams into my face before I can fight it. I try. I really do.
