30. Bethany
Chapter thirty
Bethany
The puppy sits in the passenger seat of Jenna’s car wearing a blue collar and looking like he has already forgotten every hardship he has ever endured.
This is objectively good.
The collar fits properly. The crate in the back seat is secured. Jenna has puppy food, vet records, training pads, the expensive bed, and a handwritten schedule detailed enough to qualify as a minor legal document.
Jenna will be able to give him everything I wanted for him.
So there is no reason for my throat to ache.
“You know I’m only twenty minutes away,” Jenna says.
“I know.”
“And you can visit whenever you want.”
“I know.”
“And Timothy can too.”
My fingers tighten around the folded leash.
“I know.”
Jenna studies me over the roof of the car.
She has been doing that since she arrived.
Practice isn't supposed to end for another half hour. Timothy should still be at the arena. That is why I chose this time.
Because watching him say goodbye would make everything harder.
For him.
For me.
Possibly for the puppy, who has already learned that crying earns him immediate access to Timothy’s hugs.
This is cleaner.
A quick goodbye.
Jenna opens the passenger door.
The puppy hops down before she can catch him and races toward me, leash dragging across the gravel.
“Oh, no you don’t.”
I crouch, and he crashes into my knees.
His tail whips against my coat.
I gather him close.
“You’re going to be good,” I whisper against his head. “You’re going to have a yard and all the socks one dog could possibly steal.”
He licks my chin.
I laugh, but it comes out wrong.
Jenna looks away.
I set the puppy down and grab the leash.
He turns toward the lodge immediately.
Toward the porch.
Toward the door Timothy comes through every evening.
My chest pulls tight.
“He’ll adjust,” Jenna says quietly.
“I know.”
I keep saying that.
Jenna crouches and holds out a treat.
The puppy looks between us. Then the treat wins. He trots toward her and takes it delicately from her fingers.
Jenna scratches his ears.
“There’s my boy.”
Her boy.
Good.
That is the point.
I hand her the leash.
“I wrote down the feeding schedule.”
“I saw.”
“And the vet said to wait two weeks before changing foods.”
“I promise I read everything.”
“He still wakes up once during the night.”
“I have survived babies, Bethany.”
“You babysat your cousin's toddler for three days.”
“Same skill set.”
“It absolutely is not.”
She smiles.
The puppy leans against her boot. He already trusts her.
That should make this easier.
Instead, it confirms the thing I was trying not to feel.
He can belong somewhere else.
He will be fine.
Maybe better than fine.
Jenna opens the passenger door again and lifts him inside.
The puppy immediately climbs onto the expensive bed and turns three circles.
Timothy argued for that bed.
I shut the door.
Jenna rests one hand on the roof.
“You’re okay with this?”
“Yes.”
“Because I kind of feel like I'm stealing your dog. Yours and Tim's. And speaking of Tim, where is he?”
My spine stiffens.
“He knows the puppy needed a home.”
“That is not what I asked.”
“He found out yesterday that I found a new home for the puppy. That the puppy would be leaving today.”
Jenna’s expression shifts.
“Bethany.”
“I was going to tell him.”
“When?”
“After.”
Her eyebrows lift.
The puppy presses his nose to the window.
I look away from them both.
“Tim will be upset," Jenna says.
“He’ll get over it.”
Jenna’s face goes still.
I hear myself.
I straighten. “That sounded worse than I meant it.”
“I bet.”
“I mean he’ll understand. Eventually.”
I look toward the lodge.
The windows reflect the afternoon sky.
No movement inside. They are all still at practice.
“There's nothing more to do,” I say. “The puppy cannot stay.”
Jenna’s gaze settles on me.
“It still mattered to him.”
The words strike somewhere I do not want them.
I fold my arms.
“It mattered to me too.”
“I know.”
“I am the one making sure the puppy is safe.”
“I know, Bethany.”
Her voice softens, which is worse.
“I’m not saying you made the wrong choice about the puppy.”
“Then what are you saying?”
“I’m saying you made the choice alone.”
The cold works its way through my coat.
I glance at the dashboard clock.
Timothy’s practice should still be running.
“We should get him settled.”
Jenna exhales.
She knows I am ending the conversation.
She lets me.
“All right.”
I step back from the car.
The puppy lifts one paw against the window.
I raise my hand.
“Be good.”
His tail thumps against the seat.
Jenna gets behind the wheel.
Before she closes the door, she looks at me one last time.
“I’m going to take very good care of him.”
She shuts the door.
The car pulls away.
The puppy twists in the passenger seat, trying to look back through the window.
I watch until the car disappears beyond the trees.
Then I stand in the empty lot with the leash still looped around my wrist.
I forgot to give it to her.
***
Perfect.
I solved the entire problem and still managed to leave one piece behind.
I fold the leash and tuck it into my coat pocket.
The lodge feels wrong the second I step inside.
Too quiet.
No claws skittering over the floor.
No water bowl scraping across the kitchen tile.
No stuffed moose squeaking from underneath the couch.
The bed is gone.
The food is gone.
The handwritten schedule is gone.
Everything is clean.
Orderly.
Solved.
I should feel relieved.
Instead, I feel replaced.
I gather the last of my supplies from the kitchen and wipe down a counter.
Timothy will be upset.
I know that.
But he will also understand.
The puppy has a good home.
He can visit.
Nothing important has actually been lost.
The front door opens.
My hand stops against the counter.
Voices carry through the boot room.
Jonah first.
Then Wesley.
A bag hits the floor.
Timothy says something I cannot make out.
My heartbeat changes.
Practice is over, and the crew is here.
I set the cleaning cloth beside the sink.
A second later, Timothy appears in the kitchen doorway.
His hair is damp. His jacket is half-zipped. His eyes move immediately toward the spot beside the pantry where the puppy bed usually sits.
Then toward the bowls.
Then to me.
“Where is he?”
“He's gone.”
Timothy does not move. “When?”
“About twenty minutes ago.”
His face empties.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I did tell you I found a home.”
I look toward the counter.
“Right.” He laughs once.
There is nothing amused in it.
“Timothy.”
“It didn't matter that I got Grant to give us more time.”
“I didn’t know he had approved more time.”
“You knew I was looking for options.”
“And you knew I was looking for a permanent home.”
“That isn’t the same thing.”
“It is exactly the same thing. We were both trying to solve the problem.”
“Separately.”
I lift my chin.
“We did not need two temporary solutions when there was a permanent one available.”
“You decided that.”
“What would you have done differently?”
“At minimum, I would have liked to say goodbye.”
The anger slips from his voice on the last word.
Something in my chest folds.
“You can see him whenever you want.”
“That is not the point. He was here when I left this morning.”
“And now he has a home.”
“This was his home.”
The words come out sharp enough to cut.
I stare at him. “This was always temporary.”
Timothy goes still.
I soften my voice.
“You know what I mean. The lodge could not keep him.”
“I know that.”
“The rules were not going to change because we wanted them to.”
“I know.”
“Then what are we fighting about?”
His jaw tightens.
“The fact that you did not think my feelings mattered enough to include me.”
“That is not fair. I was trying to help you.”
“By taking away the chance to say goodbye?”
“By ending this before it became harder.”
The puppy.
I meant the puppy.
“I thought it would be easier this way," I say.
“You thought it would be easier if I came home and he was gone?”
“I thought knowing he was safe would matter more.”
“To you, maybe.”
My face heats. “I found him a wonderful home. I made sure he would be cared for. I did not drop him at a shelter or hand him to a stranger.”
“I was trying to find another option.”
“A temporary option would have changed nothing.”
His expression hardens.
“You really believe that.”
“Believe what?”
“That if something cannot last exactly the way it is, there is no point making room for it now.”
I stare at him.
“We are talking about a puppy who was never allowed to stay here.”
“Are we?”
My stomach drops.
He takes one step closer.
“You said we had to stop pretending we could make it work.”
Timothy’s eyes hold mine. “Are we still talking about the dog?”
The room tilts.
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.
Because the answer should be simple.
Yes.
Of course we are talking about the dog.
But behind him is the outdoor rink, complete and no longer needing me.
Upstairs are rooms I only enter twice a week now.
In my truck is an empty passenger seat where Timothy held my hand while the puppy slept between us.
We could not keep pretending we could make it work.
The lodge.
The puppy.
Us.
All the temporary things I keep wanting to be permanent.
Timothy sees the hesitation.
His face closes. “Wow.”
“That isn’t what I meant.”
“You didn’t answer.”
“Because you turned it into something else.”
“Did I?”
“Yes.”
My voice rises.
“This is exactly why I did not discuss it with you. You have feelings about the puppy, so every practical fact becomes cruel.”
“Practical facts.”
“Yes.”
“Like the job offer?”
My heart stutters.
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“Everything, apparently.”
“Timothy.”
“You had a real opportunity, and you turned it down.”
“You do not know anything about that offer.”
“I know you are staying here twice a week instead of taking something better.”
My hurt sharpens instantly.
“Something better?”
“A real position.”
“I have a real job.”
“I know.”
“No, you clearly don’t.”
“That is not what I meant.”
He drags a hand through his hair.
“I am trying to say you should not be shrinking your life because of this place. Because of me.”
His hand falls.
Timothy’s voice drops. “Are you?”
“No.”
His expression changes.
“I turned down the offer because I built my business myself. Because I have clients. Because I do not want to work under Grant. I chose.”
“Then why do you keep looking at me like I failed a test. Like you wanted something or someone else?”
My throat tightens. “I didn't want someone else. I wanted you to care.”
“I was trying not to influence you," he says.
“You mean you were protecting yourself.”
Timothy’s expression hardens again.
“Fine.”
The word is quiet.
Too quiet.
“Fine,” he repeats. “Take the dog. Take the job offer. Take it all. And leave.”
I stare at him.
“What?”
“You do not want me standing in your way. Message received.”
I grab my work bag from the counter. “You know what? Maybe I should.”
Timothy’s face changes. He takes a step toward me.
I step back.
The movement stops him.
Timothy looks toward the floor. “Maybe we both need some space.”
I grip the strap of my bag.
“Fine," I say. It's quiet, but final.
His head lifts.
I walk through the boot room without looking back.
I cross the porch and climb into my truck.
For one second, I stare at the lodge.
Then I start the engine.
Timothy stands in the lodge doorway as I pull away.
This time, I call it what it is.
Over.