2. Quinn #3
My little dining table was really a vintage card table I’d sanded and painted myself one sweaty Saturday in August. Thrifted art prints in mismatched frames hung on the walls, and I’d stacked books under the side table because I refused to buy shelving before buying groceries.
Off the kitchen was the narrow balcony where my raised planter boxes were crowded with herbs and wildflowers.
One lamp in the corner cast a soft yellow pool over the room, and the whole place smelled faintly like basil, laundry detergent, and dog.
It smelled like home.
I toed off my shoes by the door. Max went straight to his water bowl and drank, then waited for me to begin the rest of his evening routine.
I put on the kettle and made the mistake of reaching for my laptop. Max stepped in front of the coffee table.
“Excuse me.”
He didn’t move.
“I have one email to send.”
His ears tipped forward.
“One,” I said, holding up a finger. “A tiny email. A baby email.”
Max lowered his head, took the laptop sleeve gently between his teeth, and carried it three feet away to the rug.
I stared at him.
He set it down, placed one paw on top of it, and looked back at me.
“That’s excessive and unnecessary.”
He held my gaze.
“You’re not my supervisor.”
He kept his paw on the laptop.
“Fine.” I sighed. “Tea first.”
Happy that the matter had been solved, Max removed his paw from the laptop and walked to the couch.
I poured my tea and followed, because apparently I lived under martial law now. Max had already climbed up and left me exactly enough room to sit.
“Well, I think today really showcased my range.”
Max gave a slow blink.
“Professional support staff. Amateur plumber. Floral maintenance specialist. Psychological operations, probably.”
He rested his head briefly on my knee before standing up, turning in a tight circle, and folding himself against my leg. Belgian Malinois weren’t generally known for lap-dog tendencies, but Max had long ago decided that if the lap was available and the mood was right, tradition could go to hell.
I set my tea on the coffee table and scratched him behind his left ear. “You know who didn’t thank me today?” I asked him. “Toilet guy. He didn’t even give me a nod. My standard for bare minimum gratitude is in steep decline.”
Max made a low sound in his throat that could have meant anything from agreement to gas.
“I know. It’s bleak.”
I told him about the rest of my day, because it was part of our evening ritual.
I smiled when I mentioned that Mrs. Mendez had noticed the flowers, smirked when I said Moira had looked at me like I was a useful appliance.
I grimaced when I told him how Devon and Indira had hidden in the supply closet to inhale yogurt and despair, and how I’d lowered myself to that as well.
How the partner had called me Jacobson, then corrected absolutely nothing.
And I sighed when I admitted that I still, maddeningly, wanted the job enough to keep saying yes to every stupid, lowly request that was beneath me.
Max listened with his whole body, which was one of his more unnerving qualities. He didn’t wag his tail much during these night-time conversations, but his warmth against my body helped relax me after a long night.
“I’m not complaining,” I said after a while, which was only partly true. “I mean, I am. Clearly. But I know what this is. I know I have to eat some degree of professional shit early on. I just wish the shit came with dental insurance.”
Max’s ears shifted.
“And I know Mom and Dad would say I’m doing great,” I went on, softer now. “Which I really think is rude of them. They’re so proud all the time. It’s very inconvenient when you’re trying to have a normal amount of doubt in yourself.”
I picked up my cup and sipped my tea as I looked around my apartment: the stack of books on the floor, the wildflowers drifting in the breeze outside on the balcony, my mismatched furniture and art.
I’d built this little life out of scholarships, thrift stores, side work, hand-me-downs, and an extremely active relationship with denial.
It wasn’t much by certain standards, but it was proof I was getting somewhere.
My phone buzzed, and Mom’s name lit the screen.
I was exhausted, but it had been too long since I’d talked to my parents, so I answered. “Hi.”
“Did you eat?” she asked without preamble. Behind her, Dad called, “Ask about the lock.”
They still lived in the Pennsylvania town where I had grown up, five hours away without traffic.
It was close enough for detailed worrying and too far for either of them to fix anything themselves.
We spoke every Sunday and at least once during the week when Mom decided the family group chat was insufficient evidence of life.
“I ate,” I said. “The lock still sticks.”
Dad appeared over her shoulder. “I can come up next weekend.”
“Dad, you’re not driving five hours to fight my landlord.”
“Wouldn’t take five hours to fight him.”
Mom pushed him partly out of frame. “How was work?”
I gave them the edited version: difficult, busy, still hopeful. I left out the toilet, the abandoned sandwich, and how badly I wanted the job.
“We’re proud of you,” Dad said.
They always were. That was the problem and the gift.
I turned the phone so they could see Max. They spent most of the next ten minutes gushing over him, before talking about the potential openings at the law firm at the end of the summer and whether Moira was appropriately impressed with me.
After we hung up, Max rested his head on my knee again, and the apartment went quiet.
“I just need one shot,” I told him. “One real one.”
Max raised his head and stared into my eyes. It was always so disconcerting to be regarded so seriously by a dog. You started to understand why ancient people thought animals knew things.
When I stopped talking, he waited a beat to confirm I was finished, then climbed more fully into my lap. There was nothing elegant about it. He was seventy pounds of lean muscle and devotion, and when he committed to closeness, the laws of physics had to make room.
“Oof,” I said, laughing despite myself. “Subtle.”
He ignored my tone and nudged at my throat. At first I thought he wanted my mug, which would have been a gross overreach even for him. Then he nudged again, his nose brushing the bare skin just above my collarbone.
I touched my neck. “Oh.”
The necklace clasp had broken that morning while I’d been getting dressed.
My usual necklace—a thin silver chain with a hammered charm that looked faintly occult but was still business appropriate—was still sitting on my bathroom counter beside my face cream and the Q-tip box I kept saying I’d replace with something more eco-conscious the second my life became less chaotic.
“You miss my necklace?” I asked him.
Max gave a short, precise nudge with his nose against my chest.
I laughed properly then, head tipping back against the couch. “That’s adorable and also weirdly judgmental.”
He gave me the look.
“I know,” I acknowledged. “Matching sets matter.”
My necklace was not, in any objective way, a match to his collar.
His collar was sturdy black leather with a brass plate and hardware that could survive a natural disaster.
My necklace was delicate and a little sentimental and had cost twenty-six dollars at a street fair in Brooklyn four summers ago.
But Max had, over time, developed strong feelings about continuity, ceremony, and what I could only describe as team branding.
I cupped his face and kissed the top of his head. “All right, soldier. This weekend, we’ll go thrifting and find me something that works. Then everyone will know we’re a coordinated unit.”
His ears lifted, and he settled more heavily against me, apparently satisfied that the issue had been formally addressed.
I rested my cheek lightly against his head and smiled into the relative quiet of my apartment. Outside, a siren wailed in the distance. Upstairs, someone dropped something heavy, then swore with feeling. But none of it bothered me.
“Tomorrow,” I told him, “I’m going back in there, and I’m going to dazzle.”