Chapter 6 #2
I rub the towel in my hands, and grin. I get it, I really do.
If someone were to do these things for me, I’d probably feel the same.
And it’s impossible to explain in enough depth where the person will actually grasp it, that doing things like this—helping, being there, supporting—makes me feel good.
It lifts my spirit in a way that it needs to be lifted, so much so that I often wonder if helping others is more of a selfish act than selfless.
“Seriously, Colby. It’s no problem at all,” I say as Colby tugs up her sleeves and stirs the stew. God, those forearms. Strong, tight, rigid muscles… Seriously, so much for my pact to not allow any indecent thoughts to ransack my brain. “I should probably get going.” I don’t want to go.
A slight frown appears as she taps the spoon against the pot and puts the lid back on. “Do you have somewhere to be tonight? Some extreme sport class?”
“Actually, I was going to try barre tonight, but I’m not going to make it in time.”
Colby’s face falls. “I’m so sorry.”
Oh, dang. I didn’t mean to make her feel bad.
“Don’t be sorry,” I say as I reach out and touch her forearm, and dammit.
I shouldn’t have done that. Her skin is warm, and smooth, and I immediately pull back.
“I’m not sorry at all. It’s nice to see you, and I love seeing Kona.
” I toss the paper towel in the trash under the sink and lean against the butcher’s block countertop.
“Ever since I was little, I’ve always wanted a golden. They’re my favorite.”
“So why don’t you have one?” Colby asks as she reaches for two water bottles in the fridge and hands me one.
Such an innocent question that would take me hours to answer and a solid few months in therapy to really dive into the deeper reasons.
I work with animals in my everyday life.
I love animals, all of them, and taking care of them daily brings me more joy than I could ever explain.
But I don’t feel responsible, or settled enough, to be the type of owner a dog would need.
“I’m gone too much during the day and wouldn’t want to leave them. ”
This is not a lie, obviously. But it’s not the entire truth, either.
“That absolutely makes sense. The few times when I leave Kona, I hate it,” Colby says, cracking the top open on the water bottle. “Codependency for the win.”
I sip back some water and wipe a few droplets from my lip. “When I was younger, we had a dog, Lucky Charms. He was this feisty but sweet border collie mix, and God, I loved him so much.”
“Was he with your family for a long time?” she asks.
It’s a fair question. Yes, and no, is the best answer.
I think I was around eight or nine when we got him.
I remember begging my dad for months that I wanted a dog, and one day he picked me up early from school and took me to the shelter.
I’ll never forget strolling by the cages and pleading with my dad that we should bring all of them home.
He’d smiled at me, in his kind fatherly way that I always loved, and said we couldn’t bring them all home.
But we could bring one. So I picked the fluffiest dog out and my dad let me name him.
And it seemed perfectly reasonable at the time to name him after my favorite cereal.
That memory is stamped in my brain forever.
A core memory that hurts as much as it brings a sliver of joy.
Just like I’ll never forget strolling the aisles with my dad, I’ll also never forget the look my mom gave us when we came home from the shelter, the arguing that broke out between my mom and dad, the hushed whispers and slammed doors.
I was too little to understand why Mom wasn’t happy we “surprised” her by bringing home a dog.
I didn’t get the extra burden it put on her and my dad, the other mouth to feed, the other entity that had to be cared for.
And three years later, when my dad left all of us kids but took the dog with him, my heart split into pieces.
But Colby is probably not wanting to know this whole sob story, or the way that I blamed myself, thinking my dad left because I made him get me a dog, so I shrug. “Lucky Charms was with us for… a few years.”
A long silence follows, and she doesn’t ask any more questions. She lifts herself from leaning against the counter and stirs the pot one more time. “Do you have dinner plans tonight? If not, I’d love for you to stay. I made stew.”
My mouth is already watering. “Like real stew? Not the stuff from the can?”
A quick chortle leaves her mouth. “Definitely not from the can.”
I want to stay so bad, which means that I should be responsible, politely decline, and leave. “I’d love to,” I say and hand her a couple of colorful bowls resting on the floating shelf next to the sink. “I don’t even remember the last time I’ve had a home-cooked meal.”
Colby fills up the bowls with the stew, hands me a spoon, and I follow her to the two-seater table in the corner by another window. When she pulls up the chair, she tucks a loose piece of hair behind her ear, and a soft grin flushes her face. “Well, I’m glad that I could give you one.”
The look on her face is sheepish, expectant, warm, and my tummy flutters. Right now, sitting here in the golden light, the fluffy snowflakes falling outside, the crackle of the fire across the room, feels just like a date.
And I hate how much I love it.