Chapter 4
Stupid dead plant.
Tears threatened to spill down my cheeks as I slammed my phone on the ground and hung my head.
Two drops landed on the wooden planks, and I wrinkled my brows, angry that something as simple as a photo could dig me down deeper into the Pit of Despair—at least the backyard didn’t have rodents of unusual size for me to battle.
I wiped furiously at my face and grabbed the watering can before standing and dumping the remaining liquid onto a long-dead plant.
My vain attempt to revive the brown, shriveled twigs continued as I picked up the large pot and moved it to a sunnier spot on the porch.
Staying clear of the water that had soaked through the flowerpot, I sat on the steps and rested my elbows on my knees.
The Facebook picture mocked me as details flashed behind my closed eyes.
I let the images come, knowing no amount of denial would stop the hurt.
Having my heart cut out with a spoon might be a more pleasant experience than dealing with these emotions, but the quicker I acknowledged them, the sooner they could dissipate into the wind.
Guilt rose to the surface first. Guilt that this was somehow my fault. That I’d pushed Trey into the arms of his secretary. Perhaps my long hours, messy hair, and nagging disposition created the perfect cocktail that cultivated cheating.
This same guilt made way for anger.
Fiery, debilitating madness that bubbled from my stomach and burned my throat, causing me to gasp and suck in oxygen to make the feeling disappear.
My heart raced, my cheeks flushed, and I fanned my face, trying to temper the emotion so I wouldn’t lift the dead plant into the air and hurl it through the nearest window.
Threatening violence toward an innocent—albeit lifeless—Ficus had the anger melting into sadness like a popsicle on a hot day. The hurt and hopelessness filled the gaping void the anger left, leaving me feeling…nothing.
There was no light at the end of the tunnel. No grand epiphany. Only a vast numbness spreading through my limbs, leaving my toes and fingers tingling and a blank expression across my features.
Perhaps the emptiness could be channeled into something productive, like getting Dad’s house renovated. Upgrade and install every available accommodation to help him recover faster. But now, I only wanted to sleep.
Sleep involved little thought. There were no meals to cook or deadlines to follow. I could let my mind drift, conjuring a blissful dream where a handsome stranger fed me Cheetos while I read a smutty historical romance about a colonel and the woman he had passionate, unrequited love for.
So what if it was merely three in the afternoon, and I still had the dishes from lunch to clean, a clinical study to authorize, and dinner to prepare?
Sleep was an essential requirement for a healthy and productive life.
I’d harped on Dad enough about resting in the afternoon.
I should take my own advice and lie down—just for a moment. Or two.
My lids got heavy as I rested my arms on my knees and my head on my arms. The afternoon sun helped ease the numbness in my toes but did little to warm the void in my chest. A cool, wet sensation traveled from my thigh to my ass, and I groaned, opening my eyes and tilting my head to see that the excess water from the dead plant had spread across the porch and soaked into my leggings.
Great.
I stood, running one hand over the wet spot and taking five steps down the porch and into the large backyard, paying particular attention to Bev’s shrubbery.
After spending more than a few seconds looking at the ample greenery that dotted her yard, I realized Dad had been right.
The shapes were familiar. And the clearer the plants became, the more you stared.
Dicks of all sizes lined the property, along with boobs and various male and female headless figures with parts grossly misrepresented—and oddly large.
I laughed. A loud, boisterous sound almost bordering on hysterical, but I couldn’t stop.
The absurdity of my situation hit me like a slap to the face, my nervous system reacting like I’d taken a bite of a ghost pepper, then rubbed my eyes, thinking it was an innocent tomato.
Tears streamed down my face from the force of my laughter, and the longer it went on, the better I felt.
The unstable anger and irritation at the stupidity of Trey and his new fiancée left my body as I laughed harder, and I pressed my hands to my left side when I felt a painful stitch.
The uncomfortable sensation cleared my head enough to open my eyes, and I wiped my face, taking a deep breath of the afternoon air. Basil and rosemary mixed with the scent of fresh flowers filled my lungs as I tilted my head toward Bev’s yard, only to be met with two pairs of dark, golden eyes.
I furrowed my brows as I took in two tiny puppies that were sitting on the edge of Bev’s property between two topiary trees shaped like bubble butts.
Squinting, I saw that they both had short black fur with caramel tan blotches throughout.
The little one on the right had more of a mahogany coloring stretching across his jaw and above his eyebrows, while the one on the left was lighter, with a darker face but two streaks of color above each eye.
The pups were adorable, sporting electric purple collars with little pink bow ties. From my vantage point a few dozen feet away, they looked small enough to be picked up and carried around while still looking like they needed to grow into their large heads and equally enormous paws.
As I stood, they tilted their heads and bolted toward me. Tongues lolled, and legs pranced across the grass as I watched the little torpedoes tear through the yard. I stood still, wondering if I should open my arms or run away.
The decision was made for me when two furious balls of fluff leaped into my arms, making me stagger backward and land on the bottom porch step.
“Oof,” I said, pushing away two long, rough tongues that were determined to lick my tonsils. Their tails wagged as I sat, balancing a pup on each thigh and hoping they were partially potty trained. “Where did you two come from? And wearing such pretty collars.”
The little beasts wagged their tails hard enough that their little backsides moved with them as they yipped and licked my neck.
I tried to sit them on the porch steps, but before they could do more than give me a second of righteous sorrow, they realized that if I didn’t indulge them, they had each other.
Tiny nails from their back paws dug into my legging-covered thighs as they leaped off my lap in synchronized movement and bounded down the porch steps.
Dear Puppy Placement Services,
When faced with a life-altering change, what is the proper protocol for replacing the gaping void in your life with adopted canines?
Is there a limit to the number of puppies that is socially acceptable before you become an inside joke beside the company water cooler?
What about the cost of veterinarian care?
Do you recommend puppy health insurance and staying up to date on vaccinations?
Are there specific banks you work with for customers who require extra funding for building puppy playhouses in their backyards?
Does high society accept Christmas cards with more than ten puppies crowding around a half-destroyed tree, or should the adopted number remain under ten to better please the environmentalists?
Also, how does one provide said puppies with individuality? Would matching collars be too cliché? What about sweaters for the winter? How does one determine a puppy’s favorite color?
Desperately Needing Unconditional Love,
Puppy Lover in Charleston
Playful growls filled the quiet air, bringing high-pitched yapping and low-toned snarling.
I shook my head and stood, following the pups down the steps and into the yard.
The early evening grass was springy under my bare feet, and I jogged to the playing canines, plopping down beside them and pulling the lighter one, butt wiggling and all, into my lap.
The other pounced between my spread legs, trying to jump into my arms to demand the same attention I showered his sister with.
“Aren’t you the cutest puppies in the universe? Of course, you are. Tiny, fluffy little furballs with large eyes and adorable paws.”
“Tito and Port! Where have you run off to?”
The three of us turned to Bev, watching as she ran down her porch steps, her head darting this way and that before landing on us. She groaned, heading over with one hand on her hip and the other holding a dish towel.
“I take it these two miscreants are yours?” I said, holding the smaller one toward her.
Bev leaned down and scratched underneath her chin, shaking her head and frowning.
“Oh my gosh, thank you so much, Summer. I was baking a casserole and cracked the back door because the kitchen got too hot. I guess these little monsters scampered away. Thank goodness they didn’t go farther than your dad’s yard. ”
Bev lowered herself to the ground beside me and tossed the kitchen towel on the grass.
The other pup grabbed the towel and shook his head back and forth, growling like the blue color offended him.
I grabbed the edge of the towel and tugged, laughing as he fought valiantly for the rag but lost to my superior strength.
Perhaps it wasn’t the color, but the words that offended his delicate sensibilities. The phrase “Don’t be a Twatermelon” was scrawled across the towel in bold script, a slice of smiling, colorful watermelon underneath. I laughed, folding the doggy-drooled towel and slinging it over my shoulder.
“That little miscreant is Tito,” Bev said, laughing as I handed her the towel.
“Words to live by, those are,” I said, picking up Tito from the grass between my legs and scratching his head.