Daniel was not her dog. Daniel belonged to Mr. Pantaleón, who ran the corner store across the street—the kind of place that resisted every category: part bodega, part convenience store, part neighborhood institution.Pantaleon's Spa, the sign read. It was a cramped rectangle with refrigerator cases humming along one wall, a hot dog grill rotating near the register, scratch tickets fanned out under smudged glass, and a persistent smell of Café Bustelo that had probably seeped into the drywall. Mr. Pantaleón had broken his ankle six weeks ago, and his son Jaciel was running the place while he recovered.
Daniel was also not a young dog. He was thirteen, arthritic, and moved like he'd earned the right to take his time. Emmy had started walking him when Mr. Pantaleón went down—Jaciel didn't have the hours, and Daniel needed the movement to keep his joints from seizing up entirely.
She clipped the leash and walked him across the street.
Jaciel was behind the register, phone wedged between his ear and shoulder, nodding at whatever his father was telling him while simultaneously trying to locate something in the filing cabinet. He looked up when the door chimed and mouthed help me with the desperation of a man three days into a hostage situation.
"Insurance paperwork," he said, hand over the phone. "Dad says it's under P. There's nothing under P."
"Try the cash drawer. Manila envelope."
Jaciel reached under the register. Pulled out a fat manila envelope. Stared at it, then back at her.
"He said it was in the filing cabinet."
"He probably forgot." From somewhere in the background, she heard Mr. Pantaleón's voice, sharp and indignant:I heard that, Emmy Woodhouse. "Go ahead, I've got Daniel."
She took Daniel around the block. Slow loop—his pace, not hers. He stopped to investigate a fire hydrant with the thoroughness of a forensic analyst. He regarded a squirrel with ancient, unimpressed eyes. He allowed a toddler in a stroller to pat his head with a sticky hand, enduring the indignity with the patience of a saint.
Emmy brought him back, unclipped the leash, settled him in his bed behind the counter. Jaciel was already on the phone with his father, the insurance paperwork spread out in front of him, and he gave her a wave and mouthedgraciasas she slipped out.
Back at her building, a laundry basket sat outside 3B with a Post-it stuck to the top:
Emmy you're a saint. Liam spit up on literally everything. Dryer still dead. I owe you wine.
Callie's handwriting, the letters looping and frantic. Emmy picked up the basket and brought it inside.
She sat on her couch with a load of someone else's baby laundry. Grant would be at practice until at least six. She knew his schedule the way she knew West's—absorbed by proximity over years, not by effort. She had time. She just needed the right words.
Emmy had never moved through the world like money was a given, like belonging wasn't something you had to earn. She'd had to earn every opportunity, prove herself at every turn, convince people she was worth taking a chance on. And now she was asking Grant to take a chance on her based on nothing but childhood proximity and a shared connection to West.
It wasn't enough. She knew it wasn't enough.
But it was all she had.
Emmy opened Grant's contact one more time and pressed the call button before she could talk herself out of it.
The phone rang once. Twice. Three times. She was about to hang up—this was stupid, this was so stupid, what had she been thinking—when he answered.
"Emmy?"
His voice was the same. Deep. Calm. She hadn't heard it in months, and the familiarity of it did something inconvenient to her chest.
"Hey, Grant." She stood from the couch, pacing into the kitchen because sitting still was impossible. Her free hand gripped the counter edge. "Sorry to call out of nowhere. Do you have a minute?"
"Yeah, sure." There was noise in the background—music maybe, or a TV. "Emmy? Everything okay?"
"Fine. I'm fine. I have a—this is going to sound weird."
"Okay." She could hear the amusement in his voice now. "Hit me with the weird thing."
Where did she even start?
"I had a job interview today. At Elite Connections. It's a matchmaking firm—high-end, very exclusive, Boston's best. The interview went great until the founder asked if I had any connections to professional athletes, and I—" She stopped. Took a breath. Forced herself to just say it. "I told her I could get you to sign on as a client."
Silence.
Emmy kept talking, filling the void before Grant could reject her outright. "I know we haven't talked in forever. I know this is completely out of nowhere. But she asked about West, and West just got married, so he's off the table, and you were the only other person I could think of who fit what she was looking for. And I know you don't need a matchmaker. I know you're busy and you probably have?—"
