Chapter three
George
My key barely clears the lock before Baxter hits the door like a small, enthusiastic freight train.
I brace against the doorframe, briefcase swinging, as seventy pounds of golden retriever attempts to climb directly onto my chest.
The moment he barrels into me, something in my shoulders gives way. I had not realized how much of the day I was still physically carrying until Baxter's affection knocked straight into the center of it.
"Yes, hello, I live here," I tell him, and he wags harder, as if confirming this is excellent news.
I set my briefcase on the entry table. Work ends here. At least, in theory. This is home.
The late evening light cuts across the hardwood floor in long amber slabs, and for a moment the house feels almost warm.
Baxter follows me to the kitchen in tight circles, his nails clicking a frantic rhythm against the tile.
I measure out his kibble, two and a half cups and not three, regardless of the deeply persuasive expression with which he suggests he is being denied his most basic civil liberties.
While the scoop levels off, my phone vibrates against the counter.
Mother.
I answer on the second ring, because ignoring her generally creates a larger problem.
"George," she says briskly. "Have you seen Eleanor's latest email?"
"I have."
"Good. We're adding a dinner on Thursday before the engagement party. Very small. Immediate family and a few close friends."
I pour Baxter's kibble into his bowl.
"That seems reasonable."
“Do you have someone to bring?”
Baxter freezes mid-tail wag, as if even he understands this is now a high-stakes portion of the conversation.
“Yes,” I say. There is a brief pause, followed by my mother sounding more pleased than any human being should sound over a logistical update.
“Oh good. I thought you would never get a girlfriend.”
I lean back against the counter. “Thank you for that ringing endorsement.”
“What’s her name?”
“You haven’t met her,” I say carefully.
“That is not a name, George.”
“No,” I say. “I would prefer to let her introduce herself when you meet her.”
Another pause stretches across the line.
"Well," my mother says finally, "we'll correct that soon enough."
"I'm sure we will."
