Chapter Thirty
His name is Leo.
That’s not the name he has when I meet him.
The volunteer at the Richmond animal shelter tells Marina and me they’ve named him Steven.
But when I look into his large, sad brown eyes, see how his floppy brown ears sway when he tilts his head, see the disciplined way he sits when I approach his cage, I know he is not a Steven.
And when the volunteer opens his cage and lets me walk him around their fenced-in outdoor area out back, I fall in love with the careful, meticulous way he sniffs the bush next to us, like it’s a specimen to be studied.
He’s patient with me; at one point I accidentally drop his leash, and he waits for me to grab hold of it before he resumes walking.
While he conducts a thorough examination of a tall blade of grass he deems suspicious, I admire his multicolored fur: white chest, legs, and snout; brown face and ears; large black patches on his back; brown markings at the top of this thighs.
He’s a beagle mix, he’s no taller than my knee, and something about him just makes sense.
As the walk comes to an end and we approach the shelter’s back door, he turns around and fixes his serious eyes on me, and something about his expression seems to say Are we doing this?
We are.
“Why Leo?” Marina asks on the slow, cautious drive to my apartment. She’s sitting in the back seat of my car, one arm braced around Leo. He stands on the seat next to her, refusing to lie down.
“He’s just a Leo.” From the driver’s seat, I sneak another glance at him. He’s still there. Still perfect. “I can’t explain it.”
At my apartment, Leo sniffs every piece of furniture, taking what I imagine to be an exhaustive list of mental notes. Marina and I watch him from the couch, entranced by his studiousness.
Eventually, he makes his way to the floor-to-ceiling living room window, and I feel a sense of pride when he stares through the glass.
I want to tell him, Look at how much light we have .
I want to take him on a tour of all the windows in the apartment, not just this one but the one in the kitchen, the one in the bedroom, the one in the bathroom.
I want to tell him how big a deal all of this is: the windows, the sidewalks outside, this apartment, Marina next to me, him, here, existing.
But I decide he’s already gathered all of this through his research.
I won’t insult his intelligence by telling him what he already knows.
Marina’s phone chimes with a text. I tear my gaze away from Leo to watch the smile that lights her face when she reads it. “Jess?” I guess.
“Yeah.” She holds up her phone to show me a picture of a wide, light-brown dresser. “They found a dresser that’ll work in our bedroom.”
Just hearing Marina say our makes me smile.
She got back together with Jess immediately after putting the house up for sale, and she moved into Jess’s apartment soon after that.
Now they live near downtown Greenstead, where the atmosphere is much livelier than the abandoned neighborhood Marina used to live in—which is saying something, considering Greenstead isn’t known for its energy.
But in her new place, Marina has neighbors again, and a coffee shop within walking distance.
She’ll have a good view of the swimming pool and basketball courts outside the community center.
Funding the community center was one of the first projects the city council approved when Ryser’s money came in.
Over texts, lunches, and visits, Marina has kept me updated on all the other Greenstead goings-on.
Mayor Bradley came around on Solar Summit’s resort hotel proposal, and Marina told me Jess suspects our dinner party had something to do with it.
After the dinner, the mayor exchanged contact information with the Solar Summit team, and they met a few times to discuss the proposal more extensively.
Apparently, Mayor Bradley developed a begrudging respect for Solar Summit after seeing their support for the apple festival.
With Solar Summit committing to cleaning up West Greenstead for their resort hotel venture, the city council has set its sights on other endeavors, like the community development ventures Mayor Bradley hoped to invest in, back when he was focusing all his energies on getting the federal grant Greenstead ultimately failed to receive.
With this money, Mayor Bradley can finally start to fulfill his campaign promises of making infrastructure improvements and creating financial incentives for small businesses.
Marina also told me there’s talk of setting aside money to fund the apple festival in future years.
It’s gratifying to hear the ways our festival has gone on to impact the town. And all of us too, I suppose.
Randy got the office manager job in Falls Point.
He texted our group chat with the news and added that while he hasn’t been a manager of anything in years, he feels up to the challenge again.
Jen, who’s been settling into her role as a remote social media manager for an association in DC, is enjoying having the flexibility to work from anywhere.
Last week, she sent us a picture of her and Randy out to lunch at a restaurant in Falls Point.
Seeing their smiling faces filled me with fondness and a wistful nostalgia for the dawdling days we spent together in the Ryser Cares office, but I know I’ll see them soon enough.
We already have plans for the group to get dinner together in a couple of weeks, when Arun wraps up an event for his first client under his new business: Nancy Fletcher enlisted him to throw an elaborate birthday party for her Scottish terrier.
None of us are invited, but I will be pressing Arun for details.
Tessa’s the Ryser Cares person I’ve seen most often.
She ended up getting a place in the Fan, and we’ve hung out several times.
On days when she’s not apprenticing at the bakery—which she seems to love, going by the way her eyes light up whenever she mentions it—she’s been showing me more of her favorite eateries in Richmond, from Up All Night Bakery and its flaky croissants to Mama J’s tantalizing fried chicken.
It’s been fun to explore the city through her eyes and get to know my new home a little better.
I’ve been making an effort to explore the city on my own, too.
I’m slowly finding my favorite spots in my neighborhood and near the office at my new job, where I now work as a marketing manager at a healthcare nonprofit in Richmond.
The money isn’t much, but I get to feel good about myself, and that’s all I can really ask for.
When I met up with Selma for lunch in DC last weekend, she told me I seemed different—happier.
Which may be partly because I’m not complaining to her about Bill anymore, but I’m sure there’s more to it.
I feel different. More self-assured. More me.
And life feels so much easier this way, when I’m content with my choices and I like who I am.
Leo finishes his inspection of the living room and cautiously approaches the couch.
I reach a hand out, just as timidly, and he gives it a sniff before taking a step forward and ducking his head under my hand.
I pet him, stroking the soft fur at the top of his head.
Leo closes his eyes and comes a step closer, coming to rest his chin on my knee.
I decide this means he likes who I am, too.
“Jess is calling,” Marina says, standing up. “I think it’s about the dresser. Can you listen out for tacos?”
“No promises,” I reply as she disappears into my bedroom. She ordered us tacos when we got back to my apartment, and I’d been counting on her to listen out for the door. Listening for a knock always feels stressful, like I’m taking another hearing test I’ll inevitably fail.
Left alone with Leo, I take the moment to lean forward and cup his face in my hands.
I tell him I think we’re going to have a very good life together.
I tell him I’ve been waiting my whole life to have a dog like him.
I say I’m sorry it took me so long to become the person I needed to be first, but that I’m so glad I got there in the end.
Suddenly Leo freezes, then whips his head around to face the door, his ears perked. I watch him curiously—and then, as if he’s psychic, a knock sounds a few seconds later.
As I follow Leo to the door, I can only marvel at how perfectly he fits into my life. We’ve got three working ears between us—two more than I’ve ever had. Hearing is about to get a whole lot easier.