Chapter 2
THE DACHSHUND THERAPIST
DAVINA
The walk home was exactly twelve blocks of pure, distilled humiliation.
I passed a couple kissing against a lamppost, their bodies pressed together, and a group of girls in matching bachelorette sashes, shrieking with joy outside a bar called The Tipsy Flamingo.
The Tampa air was thick and warm, carrying the faint smell of saltwater. My heels clicked against the sidewalk in a rhythm that sounded suspiciously like pathetic, pathetic, pathetic.
And because my brain was apparently a traitor, it kept replaying the encounter with Dallas.
You have no idea what happens in my dreams.
I shook my head violently, startling a woman walking past me. She clutched her purse tighter and picked up her pace.
Great. Now I was the crazy lady on the street.
But seriously…what kind of line was that?
Having someone who doesn't treat me like a god. It's refreshing.
I made a gagging sound.
The audacity of that man to stand there and say something that almost sounded genuine.
Dallas Dodger didn't do genuine.
My phone buzzed. For one pathetic, desperate second, I thought it might be Landon, with some elaborate explanation involving a car accident, a kidnapping, or alien abduction. At this point, I'd accept anything if it came with an apology.
It was my mom.
Mom: Did you have fun on your date? Is he nice? When can we meet him?
Davina: Great! Talk tomorrow!
I shoved my phone back into my purse with more force than necessary. Somewhere across town, Dallas was probably back at his table, entertaining his twenty-five-year-old with stories about whatever professional wrestlers talked about on dates. Protein intake? Body slam techniques?
Why was I still thinking about him?
I wasn't thinking about him.
I was thinking about how much I wasn't thinking about him, which was completely different.
She's twenty-five. Plenty old enough.
The way his jaw tightened when I'd made that crack about the kids' menu showed how much the comment got under his skin.
Not that I cared. I didn't care.
Here was what I didn't understand: I wasn't bad at first dates. I was funny. I was interesting. I could discuss everything from carburetors to the best way to make carbonara. I wore dresses that fit me, I smelled good, I laughed at jokes even when they weren't funny, because I was trying.
And yet.
Seven first dates in the last four months.
Seven. Not one second date. Three ghosts, not including tonight’s: two, I’m just not feeling a connection, texts, and one I'm getting back together with my ex,” and one guy who'd told me I was intimidating, which was apparently code for too successful and not apologetic enough about it.
Meanwhile, Dallas Dodger could probably show up to a date covered in Cheeto dust, monologue about himself for two hours straight, and still have women fighting to give him their numbers.
God, I've missed this.
STOP IT, brAIN.
What was wrong with me? Was it my laugh? Did I talk too much? Not enough? Was I too curvy? Not curvy enough? Too ambitious? Too…
I stopped myself before I spiraled any deeper. I ran a company that celebrated women of every size. I'd built an empire on the principle that everybody deserved to feel beautiful. I couldn't exactly preach self-love on my podcast every week and then spiral into self-hatred over a guy named Landon.
But knowing and feeling it were two very different things, and right then I felt like I was carrying a neon sign that read “unlovable,” complete with flickering bulbs and a sad trombone sound effect.
I finally reached my building, a converted warehouse with exposed brick and a temperamental elevator, but it was secure, and that was what was important.
The first floor was where the magic happened for Curvy Closet Apparel, and now it was also the office and studio of the Big Girl Panties Podcast. Most of the second floor was where I lived, and the rest was offices for my company.
Even though I could afford more now, I liked my cozy apartment, plus I preferred to put my money elsewhere, like back into my company, paying my employees better, and charities that were important to me.
I didn’t grow up with money, but I grew up happy thanks to my amazing parents.
The first thing I did when I made it was buy them a house.
I trudged up the stairs because the elevator was out of order… again, my feet screaming in these heels.
I fumbled with my keys, dropped them once, swore creatively, and finally managed to unlock my door.
I stepped inside, and…
“AROOOOOOO!”
Ricky.
My two-year-old dachshund launched himself at me like a furry, elongated missile.
He was performing his signature move: the Full Body Wiggle, where his entire tiny sausage-like body shook with so much excitement that he could hardly walk straight.
His ears flopped as he whipped his tail wildly.
His small legs scrambled against the hardwood floor.
“Hi, baby,” I said, and to my absolute horror, my voice cracked.
Ricky did not care that I was on the verge of tears. He only cared that I was home.
I scooped him up, and he immediately went to work licking my face.
“You know what, Ricky?” I carried him to the couch and collapsed into it, kicking off my stupid heels. “You're the only male in my life who's never let me down.”
Ricky responded by attempting to climb inside my ear.
“I got stood up tonight,” I informed him, settling him onto my lap. He immediately curled into a cinnamon roll shape, his favorite position for serious conversations. “By a guy named Landon. Can you believe that? Landon.”
Ricky tilted his head, one ear flopping forward.
“And then…” I held up a finger for emphasis, “…I ran into Dallas Dodger. Literally ran into him. He's a walking red flag factory.”
Ricky sneezed.
“Exactly! Thank you!” I gestured emphatically. “He called me sweetheart. Multiple times.”
I reached for the throw blanket on the back of my couch.
“And the worst part?” I continued, because Ricky was an excellent listener and also couldn't interrupt me. “He was there with some young woman, and she was gorgeous, obviously.”
Ricky yawned, showing all his tiny teeth.
“I know, I know. I'm spiraling. But he looked at me like I was.
.. like I was a puzzle that he couldn't figure out.” I paused, frowning at my ceiling.
There was a water stain up there. I should probably fix that.
“Which is ridiculous because there's nothing to figure out. I'm a straightforward person.”
Ricky looked at me with an expression that suggested he had something to say.
“Don't give me that look.”
He maintained the look.
“Fine. Maybe I'm a little complicated. But that doesn't give him the right to stand there, and say things like… You have no idea what happens in my dreams. Who says that?”
Ricky's tail thumped once against my thigh.
“No. Absolutely not. We do not find Dallas Dodger attractive in this household.” I pointed at Ricky sternly. “He is objectively terrible. He has the emotional depth of a kiddie pool. He dates women based on their birth year. He…” I paused as my mind wandered.
His fingers were so warm around mine.
I shook away the memory. “…is the worst,” I finished loudly, as if volume could drown out the memory.
Ricky, sensing my distress, army-crawled up my chest and placed one tiny paw on my collarbone. His big brown eyes stared into mine.
“You're right,” I sighed, scratching behind his ears. “I'm giving him too much real estate in my brain. He doesn't deserve it. None of them do. Not Landon, not Dallas, not any of them.”
I looked around my loft. I'd built this life. This career. This home. All by myself.
So what if I came home to a dachshund instead of a husband? Ricky had never once made me feel like I was too much or not enough. Ricky loved me at my best and my worst.
“We don't need them,” I told him firmly. “We have each other.”
Ricky licked my chin, which I chose to interpret as enthusiastic agreement.
My phone vibrated against the coffee table, and I considered ignoring it. But then I saw the name and smiled.
Brooke: How was the date?
Brooke: Is he amazing?
Brooke: Are you in love yet?
I stared at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could lie. I could tell her it was fine, that we had a nice time, that I'd probably see him again.
But this was Brooke. And Brooke would know.
Davina: Got stood up.
Davina: Then ran into your husband's best friend at the restaurant.
Davina: So basically, the worst night of my life.
Three dots appeared immediately.
Brooke: WHAT?
Brooke: I'M CALLING YOU
My phone rang before I could prepare myself, and I answered with a groan.
“Tell me everything,” Brooke demanded. “And start with Dallas. What did that idiot do now?”
I settled deeper into my couch, Ricky readjusting himself across my stomach, and prepared to relive every excruciating moment.
At least I had my best friend. And my dog. And approximately forty-seven breadsticks' worth of feelings to process.
It was going to be a long night.