27. Emily
CHAPTER 27
EMILY
W ater sloshes from the bucket, warm and soapy. My hands work through thick golden fur, and I try not to think. Try not to remember. Jenn stands across from me, her sleeves rolled up and a determined smile on her face as she scrubs the retriever’s back — the retriever who reminds me so much of Baxter.
Around us, other volunteers bathe other dogs. It’s a joyous afternoon, with music pumping, raffle tickets being handed out, and a food truck serving Italian ice. It’s sunny and hot, humans smiling and dogs barking in glee.
It seems I’m the only one who isn’t happy.
“Look at him,” Jenn says, her voice bright against the backdrop of barking dogs and laughter. “He’s loving this.”
I nod, forcing a smile that I know doesn’t quite reach my eyes. “He does.” But it’s Baxter I see beneath my fingers; Baxter’s trusting gaze that looks up at me through this dog’s eyes.
“Emily?” Jenn’s concern peeks through her cheerfulness. “You’re doing that thing again. Where you go all quiet.”
I shake my head, dispelling the image of another golden retriever, one that belongs to Isaac. “Just thinking about the fundraiser. It’s a big success.”
“Thanks to you… and Isaac.” She hesitates, biting her lip, knowing she’s ventured into dangerous waters.
I focus on rinsing the dog, watching the water turn murky before clearing again. “Yeah, Isaac helped.” The words are heavy, leaden with what I don’t say. We haven’t spoken since that day. Since he came to the shelter to get Baxter. Since I had the realization that maybe he hasn’t changed at all.
“Hey.” Jenn snaps her fingers gently, bringing me back to the dog wash around us. “You’ve done an amazing job here. Don’t let anything take that away from you.”
“Thanks,” I murmur, but my gaze drifts. To the parking lot entrance. To every tall figure that walks by. Looking for him. For them.
The golden retriever shakes vigorously, sending droplets flying. Laughter bubbles up around us, people undeterred by the spray of water, their joy infectious. They’re here for their pets, for the shelter. They believe in second chances.
I should, too. But second chances feel like luxuries I can’t afford, not when they come with risks I’ve already taken and lost.
I know I overreacted. I was too harsh on Isaac. It’s the kind of person my life has made me — but it’s not the kind of person I want to be. I’ve spent all the days since then thinking about ways to apologize, but not once have I picked up the phone and actually done so.
It’s because I’m afraid. I know it. Too afraid to take another shot and get hurt again. Too afraid to hurt Isaac, to lash out at him again like I did at the shelter.
So, here I am, frozen, waiting for something to happen, for my destiny to change. I know it won’t, though. Since I’m not doing anything different, I’ll probably be alone the rest of my life.
“Emily, seriously, you’re doing great,” Jenn insists. She nudges me with an elbow, a playful spark in her eyes. “And look at all the money we’ve raised!”
It’s true. Ricki has already informed me that the lockbox is full with cash and checks. People are generous today, not just paying for washes but donating extra. All thanks to the marketing push, to Isaac’s influence.
“Can’t argue with that,” I admit, and it’s a genuine moment of pride that cuts through the melancholy. “The shelter needs this.”
“Exactly.” Jenn grins and hands me a towel. “Let’s get this big guy dried off.”
As we work, laughter comes easily between us, moments of lightness that feel almost normal. Almost. Because even as I throw myself into the task, part of me is elsewhere. Wishing for different circumstances. Wishing for Isaac to walk up, Baxter in tow, proving me wrong.
But he doesn’t.
“Do you ever wonder if you’re making the right decisions?” I ask Jenn, watching as the retriever bounds away with his human, happy and clean.
“Every day.” She shrugs. “But life’s about taking those leaps, isn’t it? Sometimes you land on your feet; sometimes… not so much.”
“Feels like I’ve been landing on my face a lot lately,” I confess, half-joking.
“Then it’s time for a change in strategy.” Jenn tilts her head, considering. “Or maybe a change in perspective.”
“Maybe.” The word lingers, uncertain but open. A possibility among the tangle of thoughts that refuse to settle.
“Are you thinking about Isaac?”
“I’m always thinking about Isaac,” I admit, brushing off a droplet of water from my cheek.
His face, his voice, his warm laughter — they’re all etched indelibly onto the backdrop of my mind.
“But he’s got a world of his own,” I say, struggling to put my feelings into words. “A world that I’m not sure I fit into.”
“You could just call him up,” she says. “Say that you want to move past what happened.”
I can never fool her. “Maybe,” I say again, biting my lip.
The day wears on, the sun arching across the sky as we wash and rinse and dry and repeat. And still, my heart whispers what my mind refuses to acknowledge. I miss him. I miss them both.
But missing isn’t enough to bridge the gap. Not when trust has been tested, and the results remain inconclusive. Not when I don’t know what to say to fix everything. Not when space feels like the only safe option left.
“Maybe it’s good he didn’t come,” Jenn says softly, reading my silence like a book. “Maybe you need this time.”
“Maybe,” I echo again, but conviction wavers. Because despite everything, despite the rationale and the justifications, there’s a hollow space inside me that only Isaac seems to fill.
“Or maybe,” she adds, a mischievous edge to her tone, “he’s giving you the space you asked for. That’s a kind of change, isn’t it?”
I don’t have an answer to that. Because what if it is change? What if Isaac really is trying, and I’m too scared to see it? What if…
“Focus on the now, Em,” Jenn advises. “Today is about the shelter, the dogs, and this incredible thing you’ve helped create.”
“Right.” I straighten up, resolve settling over me like a mantle. “The now.”
A woman with a springer spaniel approaches me, her smile as warm as the sun overhead. She’s been watching Jenn and me with the other dogs, taking in the lathered fur and wagging tails.
“You’re so good with the dogs,” she says, her gaze fixed on my hands as I gently scrub behind a chocolate lab’s ears. “The woman at the table told me you’re a trainer. Do you have a card? I’d love for you to work with our Sammy.”
“Sure.”
I fish a business card from the pocket of my apron, slightly damp from the day’s work but still crisp. Handing it over, I feel a prick of pride. It’s the fourth one today. My tiny dog-training business is growing, leaf by leaf, like the young sapling it is.
“Thank you!” The woman tucks the card into her purse, then leads Sammy away.
I watch them go, feeling the sense of success in my chest. It’s heavy, bittersweet. Because even though everything is going so well, there’s a hollowness to it all. A space where Isaac should be, sharing this moment with me. But he’s not here, and that’s a choice I made. A necessary one.
“Oh my goodness, can you believe the turnout we had?” Ricki exclaims as the event draws to a close. She wraps me in an embrace that’s all enthusiasm and gratitude. “We’ve raised so much money!”
“I know. It’s fantastic.”
“But?” Ricki asks, pulling back to look at me, concern painted in her icy-blue eyes.
I shrug. “No buts,” I say. “Just tired, I guess.” She doesn’t need to know about Isaac, about the longing that still lingers like mist in the early morning. It’s not her burden to bear, and I don’t want to bring the mood down any further than I already have.
“Go home and get some rest,” Ricki insists, squeezing my hand.
“After I help get everything cleaned up,” I tell her. No way am I leaving to let the other volunteers carry the load.
It’s good to keep my hands busy — if not washing dogs, then packing up supplies and loading cars. The joy of the day is like a radio station just out of frequency range; I can almost hear the music, but it’s interspersed with static. The static is Isaac. Baxter. Us.
A beep from my phone jerks me back to the present. I pull it out, heart skipping in anticipation. Not Isaac, though. Just Brenda from the coffee shop asking if I can switch a shift next week.
“Everything okay?” Jenn asks, eyeing the phone in my hand.
“Yeah, just work stuff,” I mumble, slipping the device back into my pocket and putting the lid on another container.
She gives me a sympathetic look, and I hate that she feels sorry for me.
“Let me help you with that,” she insists, reaching for the container.
“No, I got it,” I say, pulling it away gently.
I don’t need pity. I’ve had enough of that. What I need is to keep going, to move one foot in front of the other. Even if it hurts. So, I plaster on a smile, pick up the container, and ignore the tightness in my chest.
I’m used to being hurt, used to bandaging up my heart and moving on. Yet something made me hope this time was different.
But it wasn’t after all. And I can’t shake the sadness that comes with accepting that my fears were right all along.