Chapter 22
Ali
Iwoke with the biggest wine hangover, which were always the absolute worst. My mouth was dry, and I stumbled out of Jake’s guest bedroom in search of water and maybe, if I was lucky, some ibuprofen.
The house was quiet. A note sat on the counter.
Gone for a run. Make yourself at home.
I felt like I already had made myself right at home after what happened last night.
God, that was hot. And completely unexpected.
But I wasn’t embarrassed or nervous this morning.
Because what I’d done last night in front of Jake—and let’s be honest, what he helped me do without laying a finger on me—wasn’t shameful.
I wasn’t obsessing about how well I performed or not.
Questioning if I was too much. Because I wanted to be too much.
I wanted Jake to see me like that. Open.
Needy. Real. Out of my mind, but only with want. And only for him.
I noticed Chic on the floor in the kitchen. He hadn’t come to greet me when I woke up or as I moved around in the kitchen. I’d expected he’d be on the run with Jake. His food bowl was still full. He hadn’t eaten his breakfast. That seemed strange.
“Chicory. Good morning, boy,” I said in the kind of voice reserved for pets and babies.
No response.
“Chiiic. You lazy boy. Ha-ay . . .” I crouched down to the floor, expecting to rouse him with a pet. He’d be sure to wag his tail at the very least.
Still no response.
I pulled my hand away and gasped.
There was no rise and fall of his chest. No movement at all. My stomach tightened, then dropped.
“No, no, no. Chic. Please wake up.” Panic rose in my chest. “What do I do? I don’t know what to do.” My vision was blurred. A pool of emotion drowned my vision.
This sweet, wise, gentle old boy was . . . just gone?
The back door creaked. Followed by footsteps. Running shoes on the hardwood.
He spotted me on the floor at Chic’s side.
“Ali?” Jake said, his voice hoarse and strained. “What—”
I looked up toward him. Fat tears streaked my cheeks. He knew.
He dropped to his knees beside me. His hands moved automatically, practiced. Checking for signs of life. He was in vet mode, checking Chic over, assessing.
He let out a sigh—it was sharp but broken at the edges.
And then silence. No longer the vet. Now he was Chic’s human.
Someone who had loved him and cared for him at every stage of his life.
Someone who as far as I could tell shared everything with him: a home, a business, a life. And now he had drifted away. Quietly.
I reached my hand and placed it on Jake’s shoulder, followed by my chin. “I’m so sorry, Jake,” I whispered.
He nodded. I could see he was fighting back tears.
“I knew this was coming,” he whispered. “He’s been slowing down for weeks. Yesterday he couldn’t get up the stairs. It’s why I kept coming back here last night during dinner. To check on him. I saw the signs, but I hoped we had more time.” Jake’s voice cracked.
He leaned down and pressed his forehead against Chic and whispered something—maybe goodbye, maybe I love you, maybe thank you—I couldn’t quite hear.
He sat back up.
“He was with me through everything. Vet school. Moving here. Losing what I thought was the love of my life. He was the constant.”
I just nodded in response, because what could I say? Nothing would lighten the heaviness of grief for Jake. And he wasn’t even in the thick of it.
I moved slowly behind Jake and wrapped my arms around him. I held him because it felt like it was the only thing I had to offer. He leaned into my embrace, and I felt his body shake as he allowed himself to release tears and sorrow for the loss of such a special dog.