Now, the money in question isn’t theirs; it’s Amelia’s. She used some of the royalties from her novels to keep the bookstore up and running. Miguel felt bad about it, but she insisted. “It’s our business, sweetheart. We decided to open it together, remember? I know you hate to accept help, but this is our dream,” she’d said the last time he protested. She stoodon her tiptoes to kiss him. “Now I have a new dream,” he growled, making her giggle. Then he scooped her up in his arms and closed the bedroom door so I couldn’t bother them while they were mating.
Based on what I heard Miguel tell Miriam a while back, Amelia’s books are still selling well. But since she and Miguel never married, her parents get that money now that she’s gone. And at the funeral, they made it clear they didn’t intend to share it with Miguel or the store.
I follow him out of the bathroom, down the stairs, and into the kitchen. “You can’t come with me,” he says, slipping into his sandals.
Can’t I? I circle around him to demonstrate my enthusiasm because according to Amelia, that’s the third most attractive characteristic a creature can exhibit—the first being kindness, obviously, followed by curiosity.
“Not a chance,” he says. “Besides, I’m doing you a favor. You know how awful Bob and Becky are.”
Do I ever. Amelia took me to their house once. It was summer, and they made me wait in their backyard where there are no trees; I had to huddle beside the scorching aluminum siding of the garage to get a spot of shade. That wasn’t even the worst part. A few minutes after I was banished, I heard loud voices, mean ones, and then I heard Amelia’s sad voice. Though I put my paws up on the back door and scratched and scratched, no one would let me in, and there was nothing I could do to help her. When we finally left, Amelia’s mother told her I’d ruined their door, and Amelia choked out that she would send a check to cover it. When we got home, Miguel asked her if her parents were going to send a check for therapy. She managed to laugh and held him even tighter.
But she can’t do that for Miguel now the way he did for her. And while I can’t pull him along like Miriam offered to, I could still be there for him—even if it means waiting next to the garage or,shudder,in the car.
Alas, he jabs his finger toward the living room. “Go take a snooze, Harold,” he tells me. My snaggleteeth must have slipped out because he snorts and says, “I can see that you’re upset, but don’t even think of doing something naughty while I’m away. I’ll put the TV on for you.”
Unlike some of my species, shoes and underwear are safe with me; even my toys get cradled ever so gently in my mouth, as I’m not wired to destroy things. But now? I can make no promises. I tilt my head and give him one more chance.
He does not take the bait.
Well, fine.Fine.I glare at him through the back window as he leaves, then run to the front windows and watch his car disappear down the road.
I almost don’t have it in me to begin my circuit, but it occurs to me that if I let myself go, I may not have the stamina to help Miguel find a new mate. Admittedly, I remain murky as to how to accomplish that—but it will likely involve some degree of agility and speed on my part.
So, I begin.
Every room gets a good sniff and a thorough examination. Though I find the living room livable, the downstairs bathroom has more odors than even a bathroom should. The kitchen gets most of my attention, with no crack or corner ignored. I gobble up a withered almond under the edge of the stove but leave last night’s soggy cereal leftovers on the floor because I have recently decided that anything consumed so frequently ceases to be charming.
Then I head upstairs. First, I roll around on the rug in the guest bedroom. It appears I’m part goldfish, because I’ve somehow forgotten that, just like the last several times I did this, it brings me no joy. I head to Miguel and Amelia’s bedroom and leap on the bed, knowing full well that my shedding will betray me. Then again, Miguel doesn’t seem to care about the cleanliness of his bedding these days, so I may just get away with it. I twist from my back onto my belly and back again. Then I stick my face in the pillows for good measure. One of them smells ever so faintly like Amelia’s shampoo. Though I have more ground to cover, I let myself linger. It’s not easy to breathe with all that fluff covering my snout, so I pull my head out and rest it on top of the pillow. Then I let my eyes close, just for a moment.
“You’re a good dog, Harold. The very best,” I can hear her say, and it could have been at the very beginning of our time together or right before the end. I stay still, very still, because I nearly feel her hand on my head, and that phantom touch is almost enough.
The next thing I know, Miguel is hollering and I’m scrambling to my paws and hoping I don’t pee all over the covers. Although honestly, he’s lucky I didn’t nip him—even a cat person knows to let sleeping dogs lie.
“How long were you on the bed?” he demands.
I stare at him. Why amIthe one being asked to explain myself?
His shoulders sag, and he sighs. “I’m sorry, it’s my fault. I really shouldn’t leave you like that. You’re obviously lonely.”
Me?Okay, Miguel. Whatever you need to tell yourself.
Except…he’s not wrong. This is precisely what happens when you spend so much time with a single person: Youbegin to mimic them. Resemble them, even, which might explain why the fur over my eyes is losing its color at the same rate as his curls. If I’m not careful, I’m going to morph into Miguel before I’m able to help him.
The truth is, I may need someone other than him, too. But even thinking that makes me feel guilty. It’s not just that Amelia didn’t make that my mission; it’s that I don’twantto want anyone other than her.
He sits on the edge of the bed, then sinks back into the mattress.
“What a waste. An hour in the car to have a three-minute conversation with the most closed-minded people I’ve ever had the misfortune of knowing. And you know what, Harold?”
I lie next to his feet and wait for him to goon.
“I asked them why, if they think romance is so immoral, they’ve been accepting Amelia’s royalty checks,” he says. “And they said that if she’d wanted that money to go to me, she would’ve married me.”
No, they did not!
But of course they did. They’re not kind people, which is exactly why Amelia didn’t want to get married. Miguel asked her all the time, but she told him she simply couldn’t do anything that upped her odds of turning into her parents.
“I told them they knew full well that we were life partners. For fifteen years, five months, and twenty-eight days, we shared everything. And I said that cashing in on their dead daughter’s novels instead of supporting her legacy by helping her store was the ultimate hypocrisy. Then I left.”
