Chapter 7
CHAPTER
SEVEN
In her quest for sainthood, Lydia stays with me most of Saturday to alleviate the damage to my apartment and, in her words, help the dog and me get to know one another.
It isn’t quite like the team-building experiences I’ve had at Mile High Observer.
I have never in my life picked up another living thing’s poop.
But it also doesn’t involve participating in a game of paintball, or Randall’s favorite, all-day personality quizzes and trust activities.
By the time Lydia takes off to join Henry at PetExpo in the late afternoon, we’ve established that my mattress is salvageable, if not the rest of my bedding. But my sofa is obviously a goner.
“I’ll see if Seth’s free in the next few days,” Lydia says, pulling her coat snug around her baby bump. “He and Anton should be able to carry the couch out for you.”
“Great. Thanks.” I frown at having to accept anything from the Richie brothers, but I have to admit I could use the help. “I’m sort of scared to invest in a new one. But even if I find another secondhand gem, it’ll have to wait till my next paycheck.” I glare at the dog.
“I’ve left you written instructions on basic dog care,” Lydia says, handing me a piece of paper. “Feed him two times per day. Walk him at least three. Play with him. And refresh his water daily.”
“I’ve got it, Dr. Dolittle.” She winces, moving her hand to her side like something hurts. “Are you sure you shouldn’t go home and lie down or something? This was a lot of work.”
“I’m fine—she’s just jabbing me in the ribs,” Lydia snaps, then gives me an apologetic grimace. “Don’t forget to make him an appointment with my vet. I wrote their website and phone number down here at the bottom. Oh, and I put down the name of a female trainer I’ve heard good things about too.”
“Thanks for all your help.” I try to inject my voice with confidence, though I’m admittedly terrified as she turns to leave.
“I ordered you two bags of the cheese treats,” she prattles on as she opens the door. “And some toys. They should be here this afternoon.”
“You didn’t have to do that.” I hold up the Ziploc containing the rest of what she had in her pockets. “You’re a better friend than I deserve.”
“Oh—” She turns back. “This probably doesn’t need to be said, but put him in the crate if you have to go anywhere.”
I put on my best I’m not completely inept face, hoping to convince us both.
She purses her lips, surveying my apartment one last time. I made the bed with a backup set of bedding until I can get a new duvet. But my sofa still resembles a half-eaten carcass. That, my pillows, and my Louboutins turned out to be the worst of the damage, though.
If I don’t look at my living room or breathe through my nose—because one of us smells—I can almost convince myself I’m not living with man’s best nightmare.
Lydia hesitates in the doorway, then leans in. I think she’s offering me a hug, but as I smile and step toward her, she reaches out to stroke Rufus’s head next to me. “You can do this,” she repeats. I can’t tell which of us she’s speaking to.
Once she closes the door, the dog looks at me, almost expectant, and my pulse picks up.
From what Lydia explained about separation anxiety, I don’t think he’ll resume his path of destruction with me here, but it takes real effort not to chase my dog-loving friend down the hall and beg her not to leave me.
After a minute, I force myself to swallow, then glance at the list she placed in my hand.
“Okay, you’ve eaten. You just had a walk. You already played with my couch.” I glance at the water bowl, which is still full. “What else could you possibly want?”
He lets out a low whine and my throat tightens.
I look at the clock and close my eyes. How is it almost three? “Look, I need to catch up on some work. If you can like . . . not do anything bad, I’ll take you out again in a couple of hours. Sound good?”
He licks his lips and stares at me, and my confidence wavers. Then I remember and grab the cheese treats from the counter. “Here! I have more of these. Only for good dogs.”
I roll my eyes at how stupid I sound. It’s not like he can understand me. But he takes the cue and sits at least.
“Good boy,” I say, creeping toward one of my barstools. He tilts his head, but once I’m in the chair, he seems to lose interest. He wanders around, sniffing, and I open my laptop. But I’m watching him like a hawk, ready to freak out and call Lydia if he does anything destructive.
Finally, after making a circuit of my entire studio, he hops up on the ruined couch.
“Hey—” I start to yell, but he circles twice, then curls up facing me. I frown. “Fine. Since you already murdered it,” I say with a curled lip. “But don’t think you’ll be getting anywhere near a new one.”
When he doesn’t get up or do anything other than watch me for a whole minute, I open my laptop. I’ve lost way too much of my weekend to this whole situation.
I spend the rest of the afternoon catching up on nearly a day’s worth of emails.
I’m used to keeping one ear to the ground on weekends, but since I’m stuck on the assignment desk, I’m not just monitoring my email, but the general Observer inbox and all of our social media.
About ninety percent of it is ignorable—complaints about our coverage of the primary elections, opinions from readers on a piece Adrienne did on women in education, a request that we expose Mafia influence over businesses in Commerce City, and a hot tip that aliens have infiltrated the student body at Littleton High School.
I follow up on a couple of messages about a shooting near Five Points and layoffs at a warehouse in Aurora. Then I spot a new email from “Mrs. R.”
Saturday, March 13, 20__, 4:02 PM
To: Caprice_Phipps@
From: Mrs.R@
Subject: Re: A Proposal
Ms. Phipps,
I originally reached out because of your discerning coverage of the Unmatched app last year. You have a talent for calling out malfeasance without unnecessary sensationalism, which I appreciate.
I would still like to offer you an exclusive opportunity to extend your coverage and further expose those behind the app.
I promise this story will be worth your while.
But if I don’t hear from you by Monday, I will have to take it elsewhere.
Please let me know your decision. This is a secure number where I can be reached: 303-555-4462.
Cheers,
Mrs. R.
I look over at the dog asleep on what’s left of my couch, like a hyena sated after eating its fill.
Next to me on the counter are the remains of my Louboutins—a college graduation gift from my mom and the literal only pair of shoes I own that didn’t come from Poshmark or DSW.
My savings account was already dwindling before I acquired my new “pet,” but when I add up the replacement costs, in addition to my rent and other living expenses, my palms start to sweat.
At that moment, my credit card statement slides into my inbox like a sucker punch, reminding me of the two hundred and fifty dollars I spent last month that I didn’t have.
Baby gifts for Lydia. A care package for my brother.
A bridesmaid dress for my cousin’s wedding.
I was planning to pay it all off over a couple of months, but add new bedding and furniture, and I’ll be lucky to do it in six.
I get up and walk to the windows, soaking up my luxurious view.
Moving in here was a stretch a year ago.
Until then, I’d been living in a garden-level two-bedroom with a roommate on Capitol Hill.
It smelled musty and we had mice, but the rent allowed me to pay down my student loans and even save a little.
Then my roommate took a job in Minnesota, and it was either find someone else to share the lease or splurge to get my own studio.
At that time, my career still felt like it was building momentum.
I’d received recognition for a piece about artists forming a collective downtown.
Shortly after that, I’d earned a nod from the Colorado Press Club for a series I did on cyclist safety in the wake of several high-profile accidents.
When I started writing about the locally based cheating app Unmatched, the public response was so overwhelming, it seemed like the story that was going to level up my career.
Until I received my first threat.
The article about the dating app shows what a bitch you are. I know where you live, pretty girl.
I swallow hard, pulling myself away from the mountain view and wandering back to my computer.
When I was little, I’d carry around my mom’s legal pad, “interviewing” my dolls, aspiring to become some mashup of Oprah and maybe Katie Couric.
Except, I soon realized, I didn’t enjoy being on camera.
So when I got to high school and discovered a talent writing for the school paper, I leaned into that.
I channeled Ida B. Wells, doing internships at our local newspaper, honing my ability to find stories that mattered, intent on my dreams making a difference.
At no point did I dream of being called an ignorant whore. That I deserve to be raped. Or hope to receive messages that I should be hanging in a tree.
My mom always encouraged me to pursue journalism, even while warning me it was a tough career for women. Her intentions were good, but I doubt she had any idea.
Still, news is what I do. And much as I like to idealize life as a barista, I doubt I’ll ever stop looking for the next story to write. The next issue to shed light on. I just wish I could figure out how to reveal the truth without fearing for my safety . . . or worrying about next month’s rent.
My stomach does a nervous flip as I click from my credit card statement back to the email from the Unmatched tipster lady. I lower my head to the counter briefly, hoping my brother forgives me.
Hoping I can forgive myself.
Then I reach over and pick up my phone. A woman answers after the second ring.
“Hello, Ms. Phipps?”