Chapter 32
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
“Please let the puppies come to you.”
My leg bounces in my chair, and I watch it absently, almost like it isn’t my leg. The puppies are coming!
There’s a stirring of…something in my chest, and I almost groan.
Things are easier when I’m floating in my own head.
But apparently, I’m a freaking glutton for punishment because I’m at a puppy adoption event.
I thought it would make things…better, not that it would unlock the only peace I’ve managed to find.
My throat is so, so tight, and pain washes over me, as fresh as…however long ago it was when I held Dad’s hand as he died. His blue-tipped hand. A few days? Maybe a week? I couldn’t tell you.
Bounce, bounce, bounce. Maybe if I bounce enough, I won’t cry. Again. I’m not sure how I even have tears left.
There’s a commotion at the front of the room, and I rip my gaze up to the door where a puppy bounces in. There’s a tiny stirring in my chest alongside the grief, and I sit up straighter.
A puppy will help. Puppies always help.
All of us are lined up in chairs in a circle so the puppies can pick who they’re drawn to. The first puppy jumps on someone close to the door, trying to lick their face. As if it was drawn to their soul. Matches.
They let another puppy in, a pug with all kinds of rolls on its face and legs, toddling like it needs someone to help it walk. I can help him or her. I lean forward. The dog sniffs around and goes to an older woman’s feet, chewing on her shoes. She makes an awed sound and goes to pick it up.
My chest tightens.
They let puppy after puppy in, and one by one, they pick people other than me, and it gets harder and harder to breathe.
Then they lead a German shepherd in. The puppy is hesitant, showing the whites of its eyes as it looks around and tucks its tail. It looks small too, like it was just taken from its mom. Poor thing is terrified. Immediately, I feel drawn to him or her. I was also just taken from my dad.
My throat is tight. They just need someone to help them feel safe. Loved.
I lean down, gently holding my hand at their level.
The puppy takes a while, trying to skirt around everyone, but they keep looking at me, moving closer to me the whole time. My heart flutters in my chest. That’s right. I’ll help you.
When they’re almost here, they glance to their right at a woman. The puppy glances back at me, and my heart goes out to them.
Please. I’ll save you.
Then the puppy turns and shrinks into the woman. Gently, she pets his head, and he nuzzles into her.
There’s a cracking feeling in my chest, and that familiar hot welling in my eyes is here.
You know what? This is stupid.
The woman picks the puppy up, and I almost run out of the event, keys shaking in my hands as I get into my car. This was a terrible idea. I don’t need a dog. Why am I even here?
The tears spill as I drive, and I pound the wheel. Why did he have to go? Why couldn’t he get to know me? Why couldn’t he spend time with me?
It hurts so bad. I need something to hurt worse so this pain can ease. I need more tattoos.
I pass a sign for a piercing shop and yank the wheel so hard the tires screech.
Piercing will work.
Piercing didn’t work.
It didn’t work so hard that now I’m sitting in a therapist’s office, tongue pounding, and actively dying.
“Here.” My therapist hands me a piece of candy as I try to suck in breath after breath. I can’t breathe. I can’t freaking breathe; my chest is tight, and I think I’m having a heart attack.
“Eat it,” she says.
I snap my gaze up to her. She wants me to just…eat candy while I’m losing my mind? “I need…” I suck in a breath. “The dog.” That dog was meant for me. We were meant for each other. That woman just got in our way.
“It’s sour.” She nods calmly. “Sour things help break the body out of panic.”
I don’t know if I can; my tongue feels huge in my mouth, like I’m swallowing it and it’s blocking my airway. Like I can’t breathe.
My therapist just stares at me with a calm look of sympathy on her face. And it pisses me off. You know what, it would serve her right if I choked and died on a piece of candy while having a heart attack.
So, I rip it open and put it in my mouth.
Immediately, it burns against my piercing with a sizzling heat. I gasp, opening my mouth, air rushing in. Then my mouth floods with saliva, also burning.
Fudge, I almost spit it out, but the sourness wears off ever so slightly. Instead of spitting it out, I stare at the red and blue carpet the therapist has in her office. She’s silent, so I can hear the candle wick tutting, interrupting the silence with little fluffs of flame.
“What do you feel in your body?”
“Pain,” I spit back.
She merely nods. “Sounds about right. You’re back.”
Back? What the heck is she even talking about?
“Fight or flight tends to take us out of the present, the here and now. Sometimes the best coping strategies are the ones that keep us grounded. Sour candy is a wonderful way to do that. Or dipping your face in ice water.”
I suck in a breath. My tongue hurts, and that overwhelming, all-consuming black cloud of grief is back, pressing me into the ground. And I can’t help but wonder if the puppy, whom I’ve named Minky in my mind, is also feeling the same.
The therapist starts talking, startling me. “Do you want the dog for the dog’s sake? Or is it possible that you see yourself in that dog and through saving the dog, you’re trying to save yourself?”
I narrow my gaze at that blue and red carpet, the one with the triangles in the weird patterns. “No, that dog needed my help.”
“The dog found help. Have you?”
I don’t remember much of the rest of the session. When it’s done, I stomp to my car. The therapist doesn’t know what she’s talking about. Of course I’m not just trying to save the dog because I can’t save myself. What a stupid idea. That dog wanted me.
I slam the door.
Stupid, stupid, stupid.