Chapter Ten
Everyone loves Henry, even the dogs. They paw at his leg, fall asleep in his lap, lick his nose. What am I, chopped liver? No, because dogs actually like chopped liver.
Spring is about to turn to summer any day now, as the trees are still flowering and blooming. Puddles of grime on the sidewalks are lined with milky yellow pollen and people walk around with tissues in their pockets. Spring might bring mud and dirt and allergies, but it sure does feel good to defrost after a long winter.
Henry and I sit behind a fold-up table in Morningside Park. We’re wearing matching royal blue shirts that say Puppy Pals across the chest and sitting next to a pen full of dogs playing and basking in the sun. Henry took my childhood wish for a pet literally, volunteering us at an adoption event.
The dogs vary in age from newborns to full-grown satos rescued from the streets of Puerto Rico. There’s an elderly reddish-brown basset hound named Fred that was abandoned when his owner died. After a year in the shelter, he has yet to be adopted. I feel bad for Fred as he watches the tiny puppies get adopted one by one while no one pays attention to him. He’s the one I hope gets adopted today, with his dark, droopy eyes and wet nose.
The cute dogs attract passersby, and then Henry and I take down the names and email addresses of interested adopters. Henry is, of course, a natural salesman, despite the demonic Chihuahua in his lap snipping at prospective adopters’ fingers.
The organizer, Terrance, is a small guy with shoulder-length curly hair and a faint mustache. He introduces us to the dogs, sets us up with clipboards and pens, and gives us a stack of postcards with sad dogs on them to hand out.
“Did you have a dog when you were a kid?” I ask Henry as I scribble the raven logo on the corner of an adoption form.
“Nope,” he says, grinning. “But I did have a pet.”
“Cat?” Henry does not seem like a cat person. Not at all.
“Nope,” he says. “I had a lizard named Falkor.” He scoops up a chew toy from the table in front of us, giving it to the dog in his lap. The animal snaps it up immediately, growling as Henry starts to play tug-of-war with it.
“I don’t know if I mean this as an insult or not, but I literally never know what’s going to come out of your mouth next. A lizard? Really? ” The Chihuahua snarls as Henry wins a round of tug-of-war. This thing is out for blood.
“I was a reptile guy. Total freak.”
I sink back into my chair and set the pen down on the table, a shiver snaking up my spine thinking about a scaly reptile. “Falkor like from The NeverEnding Story ?”
“What else would it be?”
“Wow, you were a nerd,” I say. “Next you’re gonna tell me you have a rock collection or something.” The Chihuahua stares into my soul with its beady black eyes. It’s growing very protective of Henry.
“I…” His cheeks turn pink and he looks down at his lap.
“ No ,” I say.
“I might have a rock collection, yes.”
“Oh my god.”
He grins so wide the skin around his eyes crinkles. “They’re all named after characters from Star Wars .”
“Tell me you’re joking. Right now. Please.”
“Afraid not. Hey, maybe I’ll adopt this little guy and name him Falkor Junior,” he says, and then gives the Chihuahua a series of dog-treat bribes. Falkor Junior almost clips Henry’s finger off.
The image of a little boy pressing his nose to a lizard tank, surrounded by action figures and pet rocks, makes me smile—I don’t know what I expected Henry to be like as a kid, but it wasn’t that . It makes him feel more real—less like a handsome stranger full of energy and mystery and crazy ideas.
“Please don’t adopt that dog. That thing is a demon. Watch.” I reach out to pet Falkor Junior and he immediately makes the most horrifying noise I’ve ever heard from such a small creature, his lip rising above his shark-like teeth. “See? Hates my guts.”
“He can tell you don’t like him. Isn’t that right, Falkor Junior?” He scratches Falkor’s neck and the dog melts like putty into his hands.
“Yeah, well, the feeling is mutual.” I sneer. He yips.
Henry sets the dog in the fenced-in playpen to wander around and attract more adopters. He’s vicious, but I suppose he’s pretty cute too.
Henry sits as far back in the folding chair as he can, crossing his legs. “Marry, fuck, kill: Han Solo, Luke, or Finn?”
“No.” I shake my head. “I’m not eleven.”
“Humor me,” he says, batting his eyelashes. “Please?”
I know how persistent this man is. He’s not going to let it go, so I decide to indulge him. It’s been a while since I’ve seen those movies, but I remember enough to play along. “Marry Han, kill Luke, fuck none of them because I’m not a nerd.”
He laughs. “Kill Luke? Such a contrarian.”
“My turn. Marry, fuck, kill: Chewbacca, Jabba the Hutt, Jar Jar Binks.”
His face goes pale. “No way.”
“You can dish it but you can’t take it. I see how it is.”
He looks at me, horrified. “You’re sick.”
“Yes, I am.” I raise my eyebrow. “Go.”
“Fine.” He closes his eyes and concentrates. “Marry Chewie because he’s loyal.” He winces at the thought of his other two choices. “Uhhhh…kill Jabba the Hutt I guess. That leaves…”
Laughter bursts from my stomach like popcorn. “You sick fuck.”
“You’re evil.” A bright red flush creeps up his neck and ears.
“I can’t believe you’d sleep with—”
“Don’t even say it.” He laughs, his cheeks starting to turn red too. “Please.”
“You’d make a beautiful couple, you and Chewie.”
He slumps and puts his forehead down on the table in front of us, covering his face. “I’ll be here for the rest of the shift. Please don’t bother me.”
“It’s my payback for you dragging me out here.”
“I think we’re having fun, no?” he says, lifting his head and resting his chin in his hand.
I mimic his position, facing him. “Hate to admit it, but I guess I am.”
“Why do you hate to admit it?”
I…don’t know.
“Hello?” a voice interrupts. We shoot to attention at the sound of an angry woman on the other side of the table.
“Sorry.” I clear my throat. I have no idea how long she’s been standing there.
“I’d like to see that dog, please.” She points to a gorgeous sato puppy named Gumby.
“Bennet, wanna take this one?”
I nod and smile at the lady. “Follow me.”
I lead the woman into the dog pen and give her a handful of treats for Gumby. Gumby wags her tail, her caramel-colored fur glistening in the sun. It’s almost like she smiles at us.
“I didn’t know shelter dogs could be this cute.”
I crinkle my nose at that comment. “All dogs deserve homes, especially shelter dogs.”
“Of course.” The woman picks Gumby off the ground. “She’s perfect.”
I glance at Henry, who’s watching intently. “Would you mind if I showed you another dog we have up for adoption?”
He shakes his head no. Don’t do it. I shoot him a dirty look.
I lug Fred’s heavy body up off the ground and cradle him in my arms. “This is Fred. He’s a little bit older than the other dogs, but he’s loving and gentle and…just look at his floppy little face.” I pat Fred on the top of his head.
She frowns. “I’m sure he’s sweet, but I’m only interested in a puppy.”
“Fred has been in the shelter for a year. Gumby has only been here for two weeks—”
“I want to be able to have my own people train the puppy. Who knows what kind of training this dog has had? And it’s hard to make a commitment to a dog that might not be around for that long.”
“Fred is the only dog available today. All the other ones have been adopted. It’s Fred or nothing,” I say, lying through my teeth.
She shakes her head, annoyance flooding her cheeks. “Maybe next time.”
I hug Fred to my chest and return to my post in a huff, stroking him on the forehead. “She wouldn’t even look at Fred. None of these people will even look at him. I hate that he’s forgotten just because he’s different.”
Henry places a hand on my shoulder and squeezes. “We’ll keep trying,” he says.
“I would adopt you if I could,” I say to the hound. “I’m sorry.”
As Fred burrows his wet nose into my elbow, an old man in a newsboy cap approaches, wearing a tweed blazer far too heavy for this early summer heat. He looks at Fred, walking up hesitantly to our table.
“What a beautiful dog,” the man says, eyebrows crinkling together.
Henry looks at me, wide-eyed, as if to say, Him. Him. Him. Him.
I stand up, holding Fred so his droopy face is in position to be adored by the man. He pauses, taking one meaningful look at the dog, and his eyes begin to water. He laughs, dabbing the corner of his eye. “Sorry,” he says in a raspy voice. “I had a dog who looked like this one once. It’s like staring at a time capsule. Uncanny.”
“This is Fred,” I say, bouncing him like a baby. “Say hi, Fred.” The dog wiggles in response.
The man inhales, nearly choking down a cry. “My old girl’s name was Ginger.”
It’s enough to make Henry and I both gasp, almost in unison.
I smile, squeezing Fred against my body one more time. “I think it’s meant to be, then, sir. Would you like to adopt him?”
He nods, an expression of childlike glee spreading across his wrinkled face, eyes glossy and full of emotion.
I fill out his paperwork, heart thundering in my chest the whole time, and I tell him the shelter will have to do a home visit before handing Fred over, but assure him he is in the best hands until then. I can’t stop staring at Fred for the next hour—picturing a soft-spoken old man with two lovely pups in one lifetime. Fred and Ginger. It couldn’t feel more cosmic.
Henry looks at me out of the corner of his eye, smiling, as if he knows how much placing Fred meant to me. I feel lighter, brighter, slightly more buoyant, and I chance a smile back at him as the spring breeze blows some tiny white petals through the air in a shower of confetti.
And in this moment, as if on cue, Falkor Junior pisses on my foot.
···
Terrance comes running like a superhero, waving a pair of Tevas in the air. When I squealed, feeling Falkor’s gift seep into my sneaker, Terrance dashed to the shelter’s office a couple blocks away for a pair of spare shoes.
“They won’t fit, but it’s better than walking around in pee sneakers,” he says as he hands the sandals to me.
I peel my sock off and rinse my foot with bottled water before strapping the sandals on. Henry holds my shoes and socks in a plastic bag.
“Thanks.” I examine my feet in the sandals. They’re at least three sizes too big. “I’ll bring them back as soon as I can.”
Henry and I turn to leave, and I stumble, tripping over my flippers. He catches me by the elbow and helps me get my balance. His fingers grip me tightly.
“You okay?” he asks.
“Yeah.” I nod, standing up straight. “Thanks.”
Henry lets me go, and I brush my fingers against the spot on my arm where he was just touching. “Thanks,” I say.
“You said that already.”
My face gets a little hot. “Let’s go.”
“Wait,” Terrance calls. “You guys wanna hang out?”
Henry agrees right away, of course. Feeling like I have no choice, I tag along.
Terrance takes us to Tom’s Restaurant, just a couple blocks from the adoption event. The front of the diner is familiar, at first I don’t know why, but I notice a couple people snapping photos of the red-and-blue neon sign that says Restaurant over the door.
“ Seinfeld ,” Henry whispers as we push the door open. “Where you recognize it from.”
Of course, the image of that neon sign across my TV screen on nights I fell asleep with the TV on zooms through my memory. But this is such a normal diner—a cultural flagship under everyone’s noses, casually sitting here on an upper Manhattan street as if it’s not a celebrity.
We get seated in a small booth, Terrance across from Henry and me, a little bit crammed in side by side. The diner smells like sizzling bacon, maple syrup, and coffee. It’s divine.
I order a milkshake and suck it down so fast I nearly bring myself to the brink of brain freeze.
Henry mixes his strawberry shake with a straw as Terrance sips a root beer float.
“I appreciate you guys helping us out.” Terrance speaks in the back of his throat, his words all clipped and staccato, sort of like Jesse Eisenberg in that Facebook movie. “Milkshakes are on me.”
I tilt my cup so the last remaining melted ice cream is in the corner and try to dig it out with my straw before I realize that Henry and Terrance are both watching me. “Thanks,” I say as I place the cup on the table and push it away with two fingers. Henry snorts a laugh next to me.
“So, what made you guys volunteer today?” Terrance asks.
“Just trying something new,” Henry says, shrugging.
“Cool, cool, cool. That’s rad.” Terrance nods his head like thirty times.
Henry’s eyes flicker to me. “Bennet fell in love with Fred.”
“I’m so glad you found him an owner today, otherwise my girlfriend probably would’ve adopted him.” He takes a sip from the cup; the foam from the ice cream gets stuck in his mustache and I watch it bubble away into nothing.
“Why do you work at the shelter, Terrance?” Henry asks.
He clears his throat as if he’s been waiting his whole life for someone to ask him that. “My mom groomed dogs in the basement of our house, so I always liked animals. Mostly I’m a bank teller, though. That’s what pays the bills while I pursue my real passion.”
“Which is?” Henry smirks at me. I stifle the desire to kick his ankle.
“I’m in a band,” Terrance says. “We’re called the Curtanas. We cover rock songs but we also write songs about American history. My girlfriend, Molly, is our lead singer and she’s incredible.” He pats his legs. “You guys should come see us play.”
Henry and I are audience members for Terrance’s babbling one-man show for the next hour. If it wasn’t for Henry, I never would’ve said yes to hanging out with him out of fear of awkwardness or that he’d try to hit on me, but I’m surprisingly surviving this. It’s honestly a bit shocking to find out that human interaction over the past couple weeks has yet to kill me. Still, I find myself wishing Terrance would leave so I can debrief with Henry alone.
After we finish our round, Terrance heads to band practice. Henry promises that we will go see the Curtanas play one day, and they exchange numbers. When Terrance leaves, I half expect Henry to follow, but instead he picks up a menu and switches to the other side of the booth, sliding in across from me.
“Hungry?” he says, grabbing a menu from the table caddy to inspect.
Thank god. “Starving.”
We order a plate of tater tots, a stack of pancakes, and a couple of Coca-Colas from our waitress.
He runs his hand through his hair and takes off his glasses, setting them on the table upside down. “Well. Now I officially know more about Terrance than I do about you.”
“You know my full name. I don’t even know your last name.”
He smiles. “Adams.”
“Oh no.” I frown. “That’s bad.”
He cocks his head. “It’s like the most normal last name on the planet.”
“No, I mean, Henry Adams . You have two first names.”
“Excuse me, Bennet Taylor , may I point out that you also have two first names?”
I shake my head. “Actually, I have a first and a last name, they’re just switched around.” I raise my eyebrows at him as I pop a tot in my mouth.
“Where did it come from? Your name?”
I wince as I swallow the crispy little tater tot. “I’ve always hated it.”
He leans one elbow on the table. “At least your name doesn’t sound like a Founding Father.”
“Oh my god.” I laugh. “Henry Adams does sound like a Founding Father. And you look like one too.”
“I do not,” he says, offended.
He does. He definitely does. He’s got an American pie smile and a sharp jawline and wavy hair that falls into his face. The bridge of his nose has impressions where his glasses normally sit, and his body looks like it was made for building a nation with his bare hands—not that it’s ripped or anything, but he looks strong. He’s got this disarming energy about him that my guarded nature can combat. Terrance, Martin, Kira, even Falkor the dog have all been attracted to him like moths to a bright light.
I feel Sam’s memory tap against the back of my brain, telling me that I should feel guilty for noticing these things about Henry. I try to quiet the noise, remind myself that all of these things are objective facts. I’m noticing things about Henry like one might notice strokes of paint on a mural, or…I don’t know…warts on a toad.
“All you need is a powdered wig,” I say, turning away.
“Fine.” He raises his hands. “I accept. But I’m not too happy about it.” He shifts in his seat and his knee accidentally brushes against mine under the table. “Sorry,” he says as he pulls back.
I inch a bit to the left, giving us both more space. “It’s fine,” I say, trying not to touch the spot on my knee where we made contact.
“Now that I’ve conceded to Founding Fatherdom, you have to tell me. Why Bennet?”
I blow air out of my lips. “My mom was obsessed with Jane Austen, and she wanted to name me after Elizabeth Bennet, but Lizzy or Beth wasn’t unique enough for her. So she took the last name and made it my first name.”
Sam used to call me Lizzy sometimes, if he was feeling particularly affectionate. He’d lean over in bed and kiss me when he thought I was sleeping and whisper, Good night, Lizzy .
I smooth away the goose bumps that appear on my forearm.
“Okay…” Henry squints at me sideways. “Elizabeth Bennet, huh?”
“Don’t tell me you don’t know Pride and Prejudice .”
He scratches his chin. “I think I read it in school, but I don’t remember.”
“The Keira Knightley version is a masterpiece and the best movie ever made.”
“Strong words.”
“I mean them.”
“I’m going to have to watch it, then, aren’t I?” He smiles. I really wish I didn’t notice that dimple every time.
I purse my lips. “Only if you don’t mind love stories.”
He thinks for a second, letting his eyes wander to a table next to us—a toddler in a high chair grabbing at a pancake in his bare fist, maple syrup dribbling all over the table.
Henry plucks a tater tot from the plate in front of us, pops it in his mouth, chews, and shrugs.
“All stories are love stories.”