11. Isaac
CHAPTER 11
ISAAC
“ C ome on,” I mutter to Baxter. “Get in the car.”
It’s early morning, the fresh air cold and judgmental. I’m not stopping to think about what I’m doing, and it’s better that way. If I do stop, I’ll come up with all these reasons why I need to turn around and go back into the apartment.
Baxter jumps in the car, excited for the ride, and I start the engine with a grimace on my face. I’m running on only a few hours of sleep, and not because Baxter chewed anything up — I at least had the sense to get him a crate, so that wasn’t possible last night.
All night long, this whole mess has been running on replay in my head. Dad always knew how to push my buttons, how to make me jump through hoops just to get a cookie. And this dog — this whirlwind of chaos with fur — is his final masterstroke. To think I’m surrendering, letting go of the company, just to rid myself of this last tether to him… it’s galling.
Everyone will smirk and roll their eyes. Talk about how I don’t measure up to my father. Right now, though, I don’t give a shit. I just want this disaster to be over.
We pull into the shelter parking lot, and the sign looms overhead. Second Chances Animal Shelter. My grip tightens on the steering wheel, knuckles bleaching with the force of it.
Is this what giving up feels like? Just another thing Dad was right about — I never see anything through.
“Okay, Baxter. This is it,” I say, reaching for the door handle. “I’d say it was nice knowing you, but it wasn’t. You’re someone else’s problem now.”
But then, there’s a weight on my arm, gentle but insistent. I glance down, and there’s Baxter, suddenly still, his brown eyes holding mine, paw resting over my wrist.
Is this a plea or an apology? Or maybe both?
“Damn it, Baxter.” My voice is rough, grating against the silence between us.
I try to summon the resolve to shake him off, to reclaim that righteous indignation, but it fizzles out, replaced by an unfamiliar ache. What I’m doing isn’t right… and I know it.
I’m also more than this.
I sit still, locked in this moment of hesitation, until the seconds stretch into minutes. It’s not just about the inheritance, not really. It’s also about commitment, about following through. And it’s about this dog — who somehow, despite the shredded pillows and the sleepless nights, has burrowed his way into the reluctant shelter of my responsibility.
“Fine,” I exhale, my breath fogging up the window. “You win, you stubborn mutt.”
With a resigned sigh, I start the car and peel out of the parking lot. Baxter shifts in his seat, settling down with a contented huff, as if he knew all along that this was how our morning would end.
“If you’re gonna stay with me, though, we need to get you some more toys. You need something to do instead of destroy everything I own.”
I get GPS directions to the closest pet store, where Baxter’s ears perk up in excitement when he realizes we’re going somewhere new.
“Come on, bud,” I murmur to him, putting his leash on and leading him out of the car.
It’s my penance, this shopping spree — a small act of contrition for the betrayal that didn’t quite happen. Baxter’s tail wags, his nose sniffing at all the toys and chew treats. I toss a bone into the cart, then a plush toy, a rope tug-of-war, anything to maybe ease the sting of guilt.
“Sorry, pal,” I tell Baxter as we stand in line.
He doesn’t understand my words, but his brown eyes seem forgiving. Or maybe they’re just hopeful.
He’s not the only one I need to apologize to. I owe Emily a “sorry” as well. That is, if she’ll even talk to me after the way I left her place last night.
God, I really wasn’t thinking straight, was I? I was ready to throw everything away — the company, Baxter, Emily — and why? Because I can’t get my dog under control?
Maybe I need more training than Baxter does.
At home, Baxter settles down with his new bone, gnawing contentedly. There’s a relief in seeing him like this — calm, occupied, happy. It’s the kind of peace I haven’t felt in a long time.
Maybe I’ll work from home today. I don’t have any in-person meetings scheduled, and Baxter is content here. Why risk taking him to the office only to have him destroy something?
But first… there’s something else I need to do.
I sink into the couch, the leather cool beneath me, and pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over Emily’s number, the significance of last night’s argument sitting heavy in my chest. The dial tone rings, a countdown to the unknown.
“Hello,” she answers, slowly, with hesitation.
“Emily, hey.” I clear my throat. “I… I’m sorry about storming out like that.”
There’s a pause, and I can picture her, weighing my words, deciding whether they’re enough.
“You were right,” I go on. “Baxter is mourning, and I haven’t taken that into consideration. He needs more attention and… time.”
“Everyone does when someone dies.”
I grimace at that. I’m not Baxter. I’ve pulled myself together. I’m moving forward. Her intention is good, though, and I’ve done enough arguing as it is.
“Will you give me another chance?” I ask. “Will you give us another chance? If not for me, then for Baxter? He says he misses you.”
That gets a laugh out of her — which makes me smile.
“He does, does he?” She chuckles again. “Yes, I’ll give you another chance.”
“Thanks, Em.” I mean it more than she knows. Her support is a lifeline I was too stupid to realize I need.
“Can we still do tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes. Let’s do it. How is Baxter, by the way?”
“He’s great. I just got him a new bone and some toys. He’s on the floor right now munching on the bone.”
She’s probably being careful to not ask about me following the blowup last night, and I feel terrible about that. I don’t have much experience talking about myself, though — not when it comes to personal matters. Besides, I’m fine. I’ve accepted my father’s death, and I’ve moved on.
“I also want to talk to you about crate training,” she starts.
“I got him a crate.” I grin, satisfied with myself.
“Oh. Wow. That’s good.”
“See you tomorrow?” I say, hating that I have to get to work but all too aware of the to-do list that won’t tackle itself.
“I look forward to it. Bye.”
I end the call and glance over at Baxter, who has stopped chewing to look at me.
“What?” I ask. “So what? I like her a little bit. Don’t worry. It won’t get in the way of your training.”
He cocks his head in confusion.
“Also, I’m gonna do better,” I say with a sigh. “I promise.”
Can I keep that promise, though? I don’t know, but up till now I believed my dad gave me Baxter because he wanted to serve me another opportunity to screw up. The truth I’ve been glossing over, though, is that he cherished Baxter. He wouldn’t turn his dog over to someone who would harm him.
Maybe, just maybe, my dad actually believed in me. And it’s time I started doing the same.