27. Timothy
Chapter twenty-seven
Timothy
The plan was dinner and a movie.
A normal date.
Two adults sitting across from each other in a restaurant, followed by two hours in a dark theater pretending not to notice every place our arms touched.
Simple.
Instead, I am standing in the pet aisle at Iron Peak Supply while Bethany holds up two dog beds and asks me to choose.
“This one is seventy-nine dollars,” she says, pointing to the smaller bed tucked under her arm.
I look at the puppy curled against my chest inside the front of my jacket.
His head sticks out beneath my chin, one floppy ear resting against the zipper. He is warmer than he was when we found him. Cleaner too, thanks to a vet tech with infinite patience and several towels.
Yet, he is still exhausted. Still too thin.
“And the other one?” I ask.
Bethany turns the tag around.
“One hundred and forty-nine.”
The second bed is round, thick, and lined with fake fur. It looks more comfortable than the mattress in my room.
“We should get that one.”
Her head snaps up. “Absolutely not.”
“He’s had a difficult day.”
“He is a dog.”
“He was abandoned in a shed.”
“We don’t know that he was abandoned.”
Bethany closes her eyes.
I watch her count silently.
She does that when she is trying not to call me an idiot.
It is one of my favorite things about her.
“We do not need to spend a hundred and fifty dollars on a temporary dog bed,” she says.
The puppy shifts against me and gives a tiny sigh.
I look down at him.
Bethany points at my face. “Do not use him against me.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
The puppy opens one eye.
I rub a finger over the soft space between his ears.
“He deserves it.”
“He deserves food, warmth, medical care, and a responsible plan.”
"He deserves comfort, too."
Her mouth opens.
Then closes.
I have her.
She knows it too.
“You cannot buy affection,” she says.
“I’m not trying to buy his affection.”
The puppy licks the underside of my chin.
Bethany stares at us.
“Your thinking has been compromised.”
“Glad you came around.”
I put the expensive bed into the cart.
A woman passing with a bag of birdseed gives us a sympathetic look.
“First dog?” she asks.
“It's not ours,” Bethany and I say at the same time.
The woman smiles like she does not believe either of us.
Bethany grips the cart handle and starts pushing toward the food aisle.
I follow, hiding my smile against the puppy’s head.
The original plan had been to leave the puppy safely at Hockey House with Shane for a few hours while Bethany and I would go to dinner.
We were only supposed to come here for five minutes.
Buy puppy food.
Grab a leash.
Maybe a bowl.
That original plan died when Shane tried to take the puppy from my arms.
Because the puppy had apparently selected me as its only acceptable furniture and started crying the second I tried to hand it over.
I canceled the movie idea.
Bethany stops in front of a wall of dog food.
There are too many choices.
Puppy formula. Sensitive stomach. Grain-free. Chicken. Lamb. Salmon. Something involving ancient grains.
Is this a dinner or an ancient curse?
“The vet said small-breed puppy food,” she says.
“He might not be a small breed.”
“He currently weighs nine pounds.”
“He could be growing.”
“Into what?”
I look at his paws.
They are not particularly large.
“A medium breed.”
Bethany picks up a bag and reads the ingredients.
I shift the puppy higher against my chest.
He is asleep again, nose tucked into the collar of my shirt.
The warmth of him sinks through the fabric.
I still pretend that I am not attached.
Though the performance is fooling no one.
Bethany places one bag in the cart, then adds a second flavor.
“Why two?”
“So he has options.”
I look at her.
She catches the look and points a warning finger at me.
“Do not.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
We both look at the puppy.
We both know it's impossible for us to keep him. I am living at the hockey house, with four other professional players and a long list of rules. She's living in an apartment building with a no-pets clause.
Neither of us says what happens when he needs a more permanent solution.
Bethany clears her throat and pushes the cart toward the bowls.
I follow her through the aisle.
This is not the date I pictured.
But it doesn't matter.
We argue about stainless steel dog bowls versus ceramic.
By the time we reach the toy aisle, the cart contains food, two bowls, a leash, a collar, stain remover, puppy shampoo, training pads, and the dog bed. In other words enough supplies to suggest we are planning for longer than one night.
Bethany reaches for a small rubber bone.
“Do we really need to get him a toy?” I can't help but ask.
I look at the wall of toys.
“No.”
She lowers the bone.
“But if we did get him one, he needs something soft.”
I pick up a stuffed moose.
The moose has long legs, fuzzy antlers, and a stitched-on smile.
“This one.”
Bethany squeezes its stomach.
It squeaks.
The puppy’s head pops out of my jacket.
His ears lift.
Bethany freezes.
I squeeze the moose again.
The puppy stares.
“Okay then,” I say. I place the moose in the cart.
At the register, Bethany tries to split the total.
I refuse.
The cashier watches the exchange with a flat expression.
I hand over my card.
Outside, the sky has gone dark.
Snow drifts through the parking lot lights, soft and slow.
Bethany unlocks the truck and starts loading bags into the back seat while I settle the puppy into his new bed on the passenger floor.
He circles twice, ignores the bed, and climbs directly back into my lap.
Bethany leans through the open door. “He is a terrible investment.”
“He has emotional value.”
She closes the door and walks around to the driver’s side.
Bethany starts the engine.
“We should eat.”
“I could go inside somewhere and get takeout.”
“We can’t leave him alone.”
“I know.”
She looks at the puppy.
Then at me.
“There’s a burger place across the street.”
We order at the drive-through.
Bethany gets a chicken sandwich and fries. I get a burger, then add an unseasoned hamburger patty for the puppy before Bethany can stop me.
“He already has food.”
“He had a difficult day.”
“You are going to use that sentence for the rest of his life.”
“Possibly.”
We park near the edge of the lot beneath a flickering light.
The puppy stays curled in his bed between us, wrapped in the fleece blanket. His nose twitches whenever I unwrap my burger.
Bethany breaks off a tiny piece of the plain patty.
“Only a little.”
She feeds him the piece.
He swallows it without chewing and looks up hopefully.
“No,” she tells him.
His head tilts.
Bethany sighs and gives him another.
I eat half my burger while watching her pretend she is not in love with him.
The cab is warm.
Music plays softly through the speakers.
Snow gathers along the edges of the windshield.
Bethany’s knee rests close to mine beside the center console.
Our dinner sits in paper bags between us, and the puppy sleeps in a bed that cost more than my first pair of skates.
Bethany catches me looking at her.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was not a nothing face.”
“I was thinking this is better than the movie.”
Her expression softens.
“We don’t know what the movie was like.”
“It didn’t have him.”
The puppy snores.
Bethany smiles down at him.
“No,” she says. “It didn’t.”
There is something in her voice I cannot name.
A warmth edged with caution.
The same thing I feel every time I look at the pile of supplies in the back seat.
We are acting like he belongs to us.
We both know he does not.
The shelter has no missing-dog report that matches him. The microchip scanner found nothing. He could stay at the lodge for one night.
We bought two bags of food.
I look away from the back seat.
Bethany gathers our empty wrappers.
Her hand lands on the console beside mine.
Close.
Not touching.
I turn my palm upward.
Her fingers slide through mine.
Everything in me settles.
I stare through the windshield because looking directly at her might make the moment too large.
Her thumb brushes across my knuckles.
“This is a terrible first date,” she says.
“That's not exactly what I was hoping you would say.”
“We missed the movie and ate takeout in the parking lot.” She laughs.
The puppy shifts in his bed, lets out a tiny groan, and goes back to sleep.
Bethany’s hand stays in mine.
I think about Grant’s offer.
About better pay, a title, properties that probably do not include five hockey players leaving wet socks in hallways.
I think about how easy it would be to tell her I want things to stay like this.
Her hand in mine.
Her truck filled with dog supplies.
I could tell her, but that might be holding her back.
Instead, I squeeze her fingers.
Bethany turns toward me.
Her eyes drop briefly to my mouth.
That is all the invitation I need.
I lean across the console.
The puppy bed makes the angle awkward. My shoulder bumps the steering wheel. Bethany laughs against my mouth before I manage to kiss her properly.
Then her hand slides to the back of my neck, and nothing feels awkward anymore.
I didn't need the perfect date.
Just Bethany choosing to lean closer.
I let myself believe that is enough.
Her lips curve beneath mine when the puppy sighs loudly between us.
The puppy stretches one paw over the edge of the bed.
Bethany’s fingers remain curled around mine.
For a while, we sit there with the heater humming and snow settling over the parking lot.
Neither of us mentions tomorrow.
Neither of us says the lodge cannot keep a dog.
Neither of us talks about owners, foster homes, or what happens when this stops being ours.
Tonight, the puppy is warm.
Bethany is beside me.