Chapter 32
It’s a surreal feeling putting the key in the door and passing the threshold to my apartment.
Everything looks the same. Smells the same.
The olive-green army jacket I considered bringing but never did, hangs next to the door, just as I left it.
The color makes me think of a certain pair of green eyes, and I immediately look away.
I drop the bags with a huff and remain standing for a moment, taking it all in. It’s almost like being spit out of the rabbit hole in Alice in Wonderland, wondering if all that happened over the last two months actually was real or just a dream.
Because time has stood still here. If it weren’t for Cactus, I’m not sure I would’ve believed it. But she’s here so it must be true. Pearlband Beach is real. And so are all the people there. Why else would I be here with a dog? My dog.
“Welcome home,” I say to her and flinch at my own voice and the fake tone in it.
It didn’t come out the way I thought it would.
Cactus enters with a cautious posture. Her tail is still when she takes a few steps in, sniffing suspiciously.
Then she turns with what I can only describe as bewilderment, like This is it?
This is what you brought me here for? and I plaster a smile on my face.
“It’ll be good, honey! You’ll like it. I hope,” I add in a whisper.
I leave the bags by the door to deal with later, before moving forward into the apartment.
Into my home. The tiny kitchen, the living room, and the bedroom—they all look the same.
I thought I’d feel relieved seeing them again, but I feel .
. . nothing? Well, that’s a lie. I feel something.
Something that I don’t want to acknowledge.
Has it always been this small? This . . . trapped? It’s probably just the transition. I mean, I’ve been traveling and haven’t slept for almost forty-eight hours now. Of course, it feels unfamiliar and different. Of course. It should—it’s natural.
I peek into what’s always been my favorite part of this apartment: the teeny, tiny walk-in-closet next to my bedroom.
This was actually why I chose this apartment back in the day.
This and the fact that the rent wouldn’t ruin me.
I watch the rows of high heels and wait for the tingle of satisfaction that always kicks in when I see them, but it never comes. Slowly, I close the door again.
I find Cactus on the couch in the living room, staring with hollow eyes into an empty wall. Something in my chest pinches with guilt. I did this to her. She’ll come around, I try to reason with myself. She just needs some time. Just like I do.
I drop down next to her, feeling odd and empty. It’s as quiet as it can be in New York. Sirens and traffic buzz through the walls. Sounds I’ve always liked. Now I can’t help but think they sound foreign. And disturbing.
My phone vibrates from an incoming text, and my heart skips a beat. Maybe . . .
Iris’s name turns up on my screen, and I feel guilty for the instant pang of disappointment. I realize I’d hoped for another name. Please stop, June.
Iris: I’m in your house now and can’t even begin to describe how empty it feels, or how much I miss you. I love the shoes, but I hope you don’t think I’m ungrateful when I say I’d trade them any day for you to be here instead. I can’t believe you’re gone. Please tell me you’re coming back?
I swallow. One time. Two times. Three times. Then I put the phone away.
The room is dark. My bed is cold. Big. Empty. Unfamiliar. And in the darkness, I allow the feelings I’ve done my best to suppress all day to glance out. Just for a second, I open my heart.
I miss him. So much it’s hard to breathe.
Cactus makes a whining noise from the floor at the sound of my strangled sob and a second later, my bed is curved from the weight of her.
Silently, she comes close and crawls down next to me.
A big mass of warmth, fur, and safety. I wrap my arms around her and bury my wet face against her soft body. “I miss him,” I whisper. “I miss him.”
I wake up early the next day, feeling like I’ve been hit by a train.
Unfortunately, I look like it, too. I shower, get dressed, and leave for work.
The first thing that hits me when Cactus and I step outside is how clammy and dirty the air feels—so different from the fresh morning air in Pearlband Beach.
I glance at her in concern. This toxic air can’t be good for her lungs.
I must look into it, but unfortunately, I don’t have time to do it right now.
My first meeting starts in thirty-five minutes, and I have to pick up breakfast on the way, too.
At a green light, we pass a crosswalk when a bike almost crashes into Cactus.
“Idiot!!!” I yell at the top of my lungs, fuming and terrified.
“You almost hit my dog. And I swear if you had, you’d be really sorry!
!!” People turn around and look at me like I’m crazy.
Me? When someone almost ran over Cactus.
I bend down in the middle of the crosswalk and check on her.
“Are you okay, sweetheart?” Cactus answers by looking at me with a tilted head.
“I promise I would’ve broken his bones, all of them, if something had happened to you,” I assure her (or myself?) while I stroke her beautiful and carefully combed fur.
I spent almost ten minutes this morning combing it until it shone.
She is, after all, coming with me to the office.
And at Adler Bowman you comb your hair, whether you’re a human or a dog.
I jump when someone honks at me. And then another one. And another one. My head swirls, and I realize I’m still on the crosswalk, blocking the cars from driving. They honk again, all at the same time, as if they’re trying to make me and Cactus deaf.
“Yeah, yeah, calm down,” I yell as we start moving again. One of the idiots honks again, probably trying to make us move faster. I stop in my tracks, pin him with my burning eyes and yell, “Are you trying to hurt her ears? She’s a dog! Her ears are sensitive, you moron!”
All the drivers in the first row of lanes throw their arms up in frustration as I stop again.
I raise my index finger as a warning: don’t you dare honk at me and my dog again.
They don’t, and once I’m over the crosswalk and they speed off—accompanied by a choir of shrieking tires—I raise my middle finger in a very immature gesture.
“Sorry,” I mumble to Cactus when she looks at me questioningly.
If it was weird coming back to the apartment yesterday, it’s nothing compared to how weird it feels to enter the lobby of Adler Bowman’s headquarters.
I pause inside the glass doors and feel the familiar and expensive smell engulf me.
It’s like a memory from the past, something I left behind ages ago.
I don’t feel excited or ready to conquer the world—those were the feelings I usually had when stepping inside here, weren’t they? Honestly, I don’t remember.
People in the elevator give me strange looks when they see Cactus. I ignore all of them. My dog is amazing. She’s freaking Lassie, but better. She rides this elevator like she’s been doing it her whole life. She’s a natural.
The odd feeling follows me all the way into my office—the office I once felt so happy about getting.
Now all I see is a shiny but empty room with a great view and no soul.
I shake myself to get rid of all these strange feelings and pop down behind the desk.
Let’s get to work. That is, after all, why I’m here.
And why I love my life here in New York. Because I love my job.
I’m just about to turn on my laptop when a knock on the door interrupts me, and Nicole’s warm smile meets me when I raise my head. “June, welcome back.”
I smile at her, feeling a sting of happiness for the first time in two days. “Nicole, hi.” I get up from the chair and hug Nicole for what I believe is the first time ever.
“I’m so glad you’re back.”
“I’m so glad to be back,” I say, registering how the words don’t really sit right. I ignore it, releasing Nicole and remembering something. “Yeah, about that, Nicole. I never got the chance to apologize to you for my little . . . outburst earlier this summer.”
A moment’s confusion appears on Nicole’s perfectly makeupy face—I should really ask her how she applies that rouge because, man, that looks dewy—before she seems to remember.
“Oh, you mean that. It was nothing really. Forget about it.”
“Hm, yeah, but . . . I’m sorry.”
“I assure you, it was nothing.”
I feel relieved to have that over with when Nicole notices Cactus. “What? You have a dog?”
“Yes.”
“She’s gorgeous. Can I pet her? What’s her name?”
A warmth of pride seeps through my chest. “Yeah, sure. Her name is Cactus.”
Nicole squats down in her high heels, stroking Cactus over her back. “Heey, gorgeous. Aren’t you just the cutest ever.” Cactus looks far from uncomfortable under Nicole’s gentle hands and compliments.
“June, you’re here!” A voice behind us makes us both whirl around. Lydia looks from me to Nicole to Cactus. “And you have a dog.” She looks at Cactus with a surprised frown.
“Yeah . . .” I begin, realizing I maybe should’ve told Lydia about this minor detail when we talked on the phone.
“I didn’t take you for a dog person,” she says, still watching Cactus with a peculiar look on her face. From the look of it, Lydia herself doesn’t seem like a dog person.
“Well, I am,” I say.
Lydia nods with a smile. “It’s good to have you back. I’ll talk more to you after the meeting.” Right, the meeting. I collect my things, the breakfast will have to wait.
The conference room is already full when I enter behind Lydia. The Bald League is already seated, and heads are turned when they hear the sound of paws.
“Is that a dog?” Stan Murphy says with his eyebrows up at his non-existing hairline.