3. Isaac
CHAPTER 3
ISAAC
F ollowing the meeting, the day passes in a weird fugue state. When I’m not at my desk, I walk around, finding myself at the coffee machine or in a supplies room without even remembering how I got there. I’ve accepted what my father has done, but I still don’t like it.
For some reason I still don’t understand, that man never liked me. Perhaps he even had it out for me.
Me, his son. His only child.
And what did I ever do? Absolutely nothing. In fact, I went above and beyond, constantly trying to gain his favor.
With the last task for the day finished, I close my laptop with a sigh, say goodbye to Carol, and head out. It’s nearly eight p.m. when I finally pull up to the Holt family residence, a cheerful two-story home that’s seen more laughter and life than my penthouse ever will.
I turn off the ignition and sit for a moment, staring at the quaint front porch. Baxter has been here since Dad passed away, my father’s friends caring for him. And now I’m about to walk through that door… and make that dog mine.
I can feel the reluctance coil around my spine, heavy as lead. I’m not looking forward to this one bit.
With a sigh, I push the car door open and step into the cool night air. The crunch of gravel underfoot feels loud, almost intrusive. Before I can even reach the front steps, the door swings open and there he is — Baxter, a ball of energy wrapped in golden fur, bounding toward me with oblivious joy.
“Hey, hey, Baxter, easy—” His paws hit my chest before I can brace myself, and I stagger back a step.
Mud. Of course it had to rain today. Muddy paw prints stamp my suit, and I wince as each new mark feels like an accusation, a reminder of how ill-equipped I am for what comes next.
“Damn it, Baxter.” But there’s no heat in my words, only a tired resignation.
He sits, tail wagging a hundred miles an hour, not caring one bit about what he just did.
“Guess you’re ready to go home, huh?” I try to brush off some mud, but it does no good.
“Oh, sorry, Isaac!” Trudy bustles out the door. “Baxter, inside! Come!”
The dog listens to her, and I trail behind the two of them. Trudy’s husband William is in the foyer, putting together a pile of things: dog bed, food, toys.
I arch an eyebrow. All of that is for the dog? It might not even fit in my car.
“Isaac.” William reaches out to shake my head. “How are you holding up?”
“Good.” I withdraw my hand, not wanting to have this conversation about grief, about missing someone. Not here, not now.
Not ever.
“Where’s his leash?” I ask, looking around for it.
William hands it over, but there’s some hesitance there. Trudy’s eyes are pools of worry as she looks from Baxter to me. William stands beside her with creased brows. There’s an unspoken question there, an uncertainty that seems ludicrous considering the circumstances.
“I’ll take good care of him,” I assure them, injecting a confidence into my voice that I scarcely feel. “He was Dad’s dog. He’s all I have left of him now.”
Their concern doesn’t wane, but they nod, and we begin the solemn ritual of transferring Baxter’s life into the back of my car. His bed, a tattered thing that smells of comfort and memories, his food — a reminder that responsibility doesn’t clock out — and his toys, squeaky symbols of simpler joys. They fill the space behind the seats, turning my vehicle into a makeshift kennel.
God, it’s gonna smell in here.
“Drive safe, Isaac,” Trudy says, her hand lingering on the door before she closes it. “And remember, he’s had a rough time too.”
I bite my tongue. Seriously? Now we’re supposed to worry about the dog’s mental health?
“Thanks,” I tell them again.
The ride home is anything but smooth. Baxter is a flurry of fur and restless energy, bounding from seat to seat as if chasing ghosts. At one point, he vaults into the front, his paws landing heavily on my lap, nearly sending us swerving into the next lane.
“Damn it, Baxter!” My heart jackhammers against my rib cage, adrenaline pumping as I shove him off of me and into the passenger’s seat. “Stay, okay? Just… stay.”
But Baxter is deaf to my pleas, his nose pressed against the window one second, his tail sweeping across the dashboard the next. It’s like watching a living storm, and I’m out at sea without a compass.
The city lights blur by, and with each erratic movement from Baxter, I’m reminded how out of my depth I am. Once upon a time, Dad would have known how to calm him, would have whispered words that made sense to a canine. But here I am, floundering, trying to steady a ship that was never mine to captain.
We survive the drive with no further scares, and as I pull into the underground parking of my building, Baxter finally settles — a warm, panting presence beside me. Putting his leash on, I grab his bed and bag of food. I’ll come back for the toys tomorrow.
At least I’m home. After this rough day, I have my own bed to look forward to. Baxter’s nails click on the marble floor as we cross the lobby, his body hunched, tail tucked.
We approach the elevator, and he hesitates at the threshold, a whine trembling from his throat. I can almost feel the electric hum of his nervous energy transferring to my skin. And then, as the doors close, trapping us in the mirrored box ascending to my penthouse, he lets out a distressed bark before squatting. The warm scent of dog urine cuts through the air.
“Damn it, Baxter.” Frustration knots in my chest — at him, at my dad, at this whole situation. Kneeling, I mop at the mess with disposable wipes I’ve pulled from my pocket, the ones meant for polishing shoes, not cleaning accidents.
While I’m crouched, focused on erasing traces of imperfection from the polished floor, the elevator doors open and Baxter sees an opportunity. He darts into the hallway, leash trailing after him, running like he’s being chased by a predator. I curse under my breath, abandoning the soiled wipes, and chase after his retreating form.
“Come back here!” It’s laughable, really, how quickly control slips through my fingers these days.
I round the corner just in time to see Baxter paused and sniffing at a neighbor’s door. Taking advantage, I scoop him up, his body heavy against my chest. He licks my face, and for a brief moment, I consider just leaving him here. Someone will find him and give him a good home, and then I’ll never have to worry about him again.
But I can’t do that. My father’s lawyers are watching, and if I break the terms of the clause, the company will be ripped from my fingers.
“Let’s try this again,” I say through gritted teeth as we enter the penthouse.
It’s a space designed for luxury, not for a rambunctious dog. Baxter scurries off, nose to the ground, and I tense, prepared to have to intervene again.
He sniffs at the books on the coffee table, the leather couch, the curtains that frame the cityscape beyond the windows. He’s not peeing on anything, though, and that’s a good start.
Realizing I left his stuff in the elevator, I leave with a groan, call the elevator, and retrieve the bed and food. When I return, Baxter has pulled the cushions off the couch.
“No,” I tell him, putting the cushions back where they go. He responds by shoving his wet nose in my face.
“Here. Drink some water.” Filling a bowl, I put it on the floor for him, then just stand there in the kitchen.
Scrubbing my face, I remind myself of the simple routine. Open the fridge. Pull out a dinner.
It’s a minimal plate — grilled salmon with a side of asparagus — meal prep from a chef who knows my palate better than I do myself. The digital numbers on the microwave count down, and a soft ding signifies it’s time to eat alone again.
This time, though, I have an audience. A golden head tilted to the side, tongue rolling out of the gaping mouth.
“I don’t think so.” Tearing into his food bag, I pour Baxter a full bowl. He sniffs at it, unimpressed, then turns his attention to the couch.
“Hey, buddy,” I say, trying to keep my voice light. “Your bed, remember?”
I point to the plush dog bed nestled in the corner, an offering to make this place feel more like home for him. For twenty seconds, he complies, burrowing into the fabric, a temporary truce between us.
But Baxter is a creature of comfort, and the allure of the couch beckons. Before I can finish my first bite, he’s back up there, claiming it as his own. I sigh, the sound heavy.
Fine. Whatever. What’s one more thing out of place? The couch will smell like dog, but my car already does.
With the day pressing down on my shoulders, I finish my food then rinse my plate and leave it in the sink. Tomorrow is another day. Another day that will take me a little bit further from my dad’s death. From my dad’s life.
My chest tightens, but I ignore it, stripping my clothes as I walk to the bathroom. The hot water of the shower cascades over me, but it does little to wash away the weariness. Droplets mix with the grief that clings to my skin, a reminder of how everything has changed. I stand there until the steam blurs my reflection in the glass and I’m not sure what I feel the most.
Is it sadness over losing my dad? Anger at him for burdening me with Baxter? Frustration at myself for being so easily affected?
Bed calls to me like a siren’s song, the sheets cool and inviting. As I crawl under them, I allow myself a sliver of hope. At least Baxter is quiet. Maybe he won’t be so hard to take care of after all.
Sighing, I close my eyes and start to drift off to sleep — until a crash splits through the air, quickly followed by the sound of paws scampering across the hardwood floor.
Cursing, I squeeze my eyes shut. That was definitely glass. Which means it was definitely my artisan vase that cost nearly ten thousand dollars.
Tossing the covers off, I trudge into the living room to clean up the latest mess. “Welcome to your new life,” I mutter to myself.
Hope you’re happy, Dad.