Chapter 6
CHAPTER
SIX
By the time I pull into Lydia’s driveway, I’ve walked my dog, bid my brother an early farewell, done thirty minutes of circuits at the gym, and visited the donut drive-through for my best friend.
I finished and submitted the PetExpo write-up last night.
It wasn’t edgy or groundbreaking, and won’t win any awards, but I’d be surprised if I got hate mail from it.
It’ll earn my paycheck, and should serve as a nice endorsement for The Pooch Park.
“Oh my God, I love you,” Lydia says, accepting six donuts and a coffee as she wiggles into the passenger seat.
I swear she’s rounder than she was at her shower a week ago.
“I forwarded the article to Henry after you sent it to me, and he’s already buzzing about it.
Thank you so much! I like that you put in a good word for MaxFund too. They’re an amazing rescue.”
She brings the coffee to her lips, spots Anton coming out of the house in his running gear, and pauses.
I roll my eyes at their shared glance.
“Don’t worry, it’s decaf,” I say, mouthing the words with extra emphasis at her husband through the windshield. Pregnancy does weird things to people. “Anyway, thank you for lending me your new Honda,” I say, reversing out of the driveway.
“You are such a good friend.” She sips her coffee and sighs, then peeks over her shoulder to inspect her SUV. “So, what did he bring you?”
I open my mouth. Close it again. “It’s at my place . . . might be best to just show you.”
Lydia catches me up on the latest drama between her mom and sister on the ride over.
After Lydia’s baby shower, Marion apparently recorded a video that went semi-viral about how under-appreciated she is as a grandma.
Knowing their mom has never so much as changed a diaper for Celia’s baby, I was shocked Lydia’s sister didn’t murder Marion in her sleep.
Neither Lydia nor I really knew our dads growing up, but I’ve always secretly thought hers must’ve just run for the hills.
We’re laughing over the comments on the video when the elevator opens on my floor. But as soon as we step into the hall, we both stop and look at each other.
“What is that?” Lydia asks, tilting her head at a high-pitched sound.
It stops as soon as she speaks, and I furrow my brow. “Huh. I don’t—”
A clear wail echoes down the hall, and now I think I can guess what it is, or at least where it’s coming from. My skin prickles. I fumble with my keys, pace quickening as I close in on my apartment door.
“Oh, poor thing,” Lydia says, trailing behind me. “I didn’t know any of your neighbors had a—”
“Holy. Shit.”
My door swings open, and at first, I think it must’ve snowed indoors.
There is white fluff and feathers everywhere.
The entire floor is covered. It’s on the coffee table and the counter.
One of my barstools lies on its side. A framed poster is askew on the wall.
And my couch—my cute velvety green couch—is destroyed.
Stripped of half its fabric and stuffing.
In a daze, I reach down and retrieve one of my prized Louboutins from the debris.
“What the . . .” My hands shake as I pick up the ruined heel. For a split second, I wonder if someone actually broke in, did this to hurt me—is my stalker back in the game? Until I look more closely at the shoe. And realize it’s been chewed. “Fuck!”
As if in reply, a bark issues from across the room. There, in the center of what used to be my bed, sits a panting Belgian Malinois. Lydia swings the door shut behind us, and he stands up, barking.
“Lydia, open the door.” I panic, stepping between the obviously insane animal and my pregnant friend. “Don’t let him get close to you!”
She places a warm hand on my arm, and I pause, looking at her.
“Caprice,” she says calmly. “Theo brought you a dog?”
I look at her dumbly. I had imagined picking her up, coming back to my place to surprise her with this news, then sipping coffee while she offered friendly advice on pet ownership.
Now my gaze drifts from her face, around my destroyed apartment, and back to the canine still barking and wagging his tail on my shredded purple duvet.
“He—he was Kyle's.” My back hits the door, and the next thing I know, I’m gasping for air.
Nearly eight months pregnant, my friend sets down her coffee and donuts and holds my hands as I sink to the floor. When she seems assured I’m not going to totally pass out, she hefts herself back up and coos softly at the beast on my bed.
“Hey buddy, how are you?” she says.
Rufus spins in circles, barking, sending feathers into the air.
“Lydia—” I croak, worried he’s lost his mind and could bite her, or worse. But she just waves me off, reaching into her pocket and holding out a handful of the dog treats she carries everywhere.
“What’s his name?” she asks quietly.
I stare ahead, trying to focus on the animal watching her. “Rufus.”
“Oh, Rufus.” I hear the smile in her voice. “How very canine.”
The edges of my vision darken, and I put my head between my knees, forcibly slowing down my breathing. I refuse to lose consciousness while Lydia’s doing something potentially stupid.
When I’m able to look up again, she’s almost to the bed. She moves slowly, treats out in front of her. The dog spins like a top as she approaches, creating a new whirlwind of feathers, but pauses when she speaks to him in a low, soothing voice.
“There you go. It’s okay. You’ve had a rough morning, huh?”
I snort, regaining control of my heartbeat.
He lets out a low whimper.
“Do you like cheese treats?” she asks. I hold my breath as she extends her palm flat in front of his snout.
Tentatively, he leans forward, glances at her, and pulls back.
He finally reaches out again and takes the small orange square out of her hand.
“Good boy,” she says, still quiet, but there’s relief in her tone.
She repeats the process until he’s stopped panting, and it’s clear he’s watching for goodies every time she reaches into her pockets. I drag myself to my feet, righting my barstool on my way up.
“Where’s his water dish?” Lydia asks.
“His . . . oh.” I flush with guilt. How did I forget to give him water? I pull a mixing bowl I never use out of the cupboard, fill it at the sink, and set it on the floor at the edge of the kitchen without looking at either of them.
“Okay, has he been fed?” She sounds a little impatient, but that’s not unfair.
“Yes.”
“Walked?”
“I took him right before I left for the gym. Which was only like . . . ninety minutes ago.” I shake my head, leaning against the counter and surveying my apartment. “Did he really do this?”
“Well, yeah,” Lydia says. And this time her tone is clipped. “As I understand, he was flown across the country by a stranger yesterday, then left with another stranger. Who then left him alone in a strange place with no water.”
“It wasn’t that long.” I hold up my desecrated shoe. “Look what he did!”
Lydia winces. “Consider this your first lesson in dog ownership,” she says kindly but firmly. “They can’t tell time.”
“Heartthrob has never done anything like this!” I gesture around the room, queasy just looking at my living area. I loved that couch. I loved those pillows. “Why would any animal do this?”
“It’s separation anxiety. You said he was Kyle's, right?”
I press my lips together and nod.
“So, he was a military dog and went through who knows what,” she speculates. “He lost his owner a year ago—and what’s happened to him since? This poor guy’s got some baggage.” She frowns, glancing in the corner behind him. “Why didn’t you put him in the crate when you left?”
I stare at the giant box, with its blanket inside and secure metal door, seemingly the only undisturbed item in the room. I know I don’t have the right answer, so I just shrug. “I honestly didn’t even think of it.”
Lydia reaches to scratch the dog’s fuzzy black ears. “Lots of dogs with separation anxiety do better in a crate when they’re left alone.”
“Now you tell me.”
She gives me a sidelong look. “I did ask for an update yesterday . . .”
I bite my lip. Maybe she’s right, and this whole situation could’ve been avoided. Which makes me feel worse. I glare at the dog, turn, and throw the heel at what’s left of my sitting area. “Look what you did to my couch!”
Rufus stiffens next to Lydia and barks.
“Caprice,” she admonishes. And I get a weird flash of what she’ll sound like as a mother. “You’re going to freak him out again.”
I exhale, walking to the kitchen for a garbage bag while she pets him and offers more treats. I know she isn’t trying to blame me, but it seems like I have a right to be upset when my home is literally ruined.
“Hand me one of those,” she says, scooping feathers from my duvet into a pile on the bed.
I grab the entire box, then glance at the clock. “Don’t you have to get going? When did you say you’d meet Henry?”
She rests her hands on her hips, then pulls out her phone. “I’ll see if Tomás can join him for a while. It’s Saturday. The Pooch Park shouldn’t be as busy, and this . . . seems like kind of an emergency.”
A lump rises in my throat as I watch her shoot off a text. “You’ll stay? Are you sure?”
“I’m not going to leave you hanging with your apartment shredded,” she says gently, then eyeballs Rufus. “But I think I should stay for him as much as for you.”
I glance at the dog, who leans into her touch adoringly, tongue hanging out on one side.
My eyes burn when Lydia looks back at me. We’ve been through a lot over the course of our friendship, but I don’t think I’ve ever been more grateful to have her in my life. “Thank you. I—I need all the help I can get.”
You’ll be in over your head in less than twenty-four hours.
Drew Forbes’s words invade my mind like a sneering I-told-you-so, souring my stomach. Rufus hops down from the bed and starts slurping from the water bowl, and I let myself sink to the mattress.