Chapter 11
Eleven
Tobin sighed as she closed her iPad. She was perched on the outdoor sectional, listening to the waves crash against the cliffs below.
She’d just sent off a flurry of emails confirming her coursework in Iceland.
For the better part of the week, she’d buried herself in distraction— picking up extra shifts, cooking through her emotions, and combing through sperm banks in search of the perfect donor.
None of it was working.
She’d inevitably lose the battle to her thoughts as they drifted back to Grier.
Consumed by alternating waves of guilt and desire, Tobin felt powerless to drive her from her mind.
She felt like a junkie searching frantically for her next fix, trapped in a mockery of self- imposed rehab without access to her drug of choice.
Grier had left her text on read. Tobin could take the hint—she wasn’t worth the response. And honestly, she couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t sure she’d respond to herself either.
Timing was everything—and theirs was anything but impeccable. Even a year earlier, this tryst might have been something. They might’ve had the space to experiment, to explore what could’ve been. But now, Tobin was committed to having a child, and time wasn’t a luxury she could afford to waste.
Her heart was warring with her mind, but her damn ovaries were setting the pace—a ticking time bomb marching steadily toward menopause, each beat narrowing her chance at biological motherhood.
She needed to pick a donor. But every profile she clicked on she faulted. Flaws that didn’t make sense. Flaws that were, realistically, irrelevant. She was being picky because she was scared—and being scared meant she was stalling.
She was afraid of change, and what it would mean.
Every decision had a domino effect on the rest of her life.
If she had this baby, it would be all the more difficult to pursue a potential partner.
If she pursued a partner, she could lose her chance at biological motherhood.
Adoption was an option, but she wanted to experience the growth of life inside her—if it was still possible.
And adoption agencies didn’t exactly rally around the queer community, let alone single parents by choice. She could foster, but she knew she wasn’t capable of bringing a child into her home only to surrender them to a forever family that didn’t include her.
Tobin sat forward, burying her face in her hands. Her mind was a storm, two parallel paths ahead of her: an embarkation of the heart and mind. She wanted both, but could choose only one.
Her heart wanted both a partner and a child. Despite her well- adjusted queerness, she still harbored some tendencies entwined in traditionalism, and she’d be lying to herself if she tried to disregard her childhood dream of co-parenting with a loving, supportive partner.
Her mind told her this thing with Grier was only chemicals, a high she should wean herself from and forget ever happened.
She should choose the baby—the guaranteed outcome—the path where she didn’t end up broken and alone in a hospital bed, abandoned by someone who was supposed to love her unconditionally.
It came down to control, and control was a concept Tobin understood acutely.
A relationship could end, but parenting was forever.
She’d made the right call, ending things before they started.
She couldn’t control how things would go with Grier, but she could control her own body.
Now she just had to master her heart, keeping it from succumbing to the deep, gnawing ache of the doctor’s absence.
Tobin’s phone rang. She watched the screen light up with the logo for the local dog rescue, Fetch a Friend. She volunteered there regularly—but she wasn’t on the schedule today.
She slid the answer button and raised the phone to her ear, “Hi, Anchor.”
“Tobin. Hi. Any chance you’re not busy, like… now? Ish?” Tobin could hear the desperation in her friend’s tone, her voice rising with each word.
“Um, not particularly. Everything okay?” Tobin hesitated.
Anchor didn’t typically call with this frantic edge.
Normally, they arranged her shifts in advance.
Occasionally, though, Anchor called to request helo transport for dogs that were removed from homes under deplorable conditions.
Eddie was in favor of the tax write-off that using the helicopters allowed, and had given Tobin permission to use them as needed.
“Barking Lot Rescue shuttered their doors last night.” Tobin recognized the name—one of the rescues from a neighboring town. Money was always tight in the dog rescue community, but closing without notice was alarming.
“They were months behind on rent and vet bills. They have thirteen dogs in residence as of yesterday, and nowhere to put them. I’ve been up since I got the call at two a.m., trying to rig make-shift kennels and quarantine suites, but I’m running out of time—ten a.m. is the deadline to get the transfers initiated.
” Anchor’s voice was frantic and pitchy.
“They’re going to euthanize any dogs they can’t transfer. Can you help?”
“Anchor, yes! I’ll leave right now.” It was a distraction, if nothing else.
“You’re a lifesaver, Tobin. I owe you.”
Tobin could almost feel Anchor’s relief radiating through the phone.
“Do you need anything?
Anchor released an exasperated chuckle. “If you’ve got some coffee already brewed, I wouldn’t say no.”
“Hot coffee on the way. See you soon.” Tobin disconnected the call and texted Harrow, letting her know that she might not be home for dinner tonight.
Tobin found Anchor in the Fetch a Friend kennels, kneeling in front of dog beds she was zip-tying on top of each other to form makeshift bunk beds.
Anchor looked disheveled—her dishwater blonde hair was pulled into a ponytail, though much of it had escaped to her shoulders.
Frizz stood on end around her scalp, as if she’d been struck by lightning.
Her face wasn’t much better—speckled with dust and dried mud, streaked where sweat had trickled down her brow.
Tobin could see the strain in her shoulders as she fought with the zip ties.
“Did someone order coffee?” Tobin offered her the mug as she walked into the kennel.
“Tobin! Oh, thank goodness. Any chance you brought an IV kit? I could use that coffee mainlined right about now.” Anchor tried to make light of her obvious distress as she sat back on her calves, brushing loose strands of hair behind her ears before accepting the mug.
“You look like you could lie down on one of these beds yourself.
Bunk beds?” Tobin asked, nodding toward the setup.
“No rest for the weary, right? It’s the best we have under the circumstances. I hate double bunking the resident pups, but it’s better than the alternative.” She shrugged, then gulped the scalding coffee without flinching.
“Okay, well—put me to work, Boss. Where do you want me?”
“You can help me. Jodi’s gassing up the van, and Eli’s in the laundry room with the linens. I sent an SOS text to some of the volunteers after I talked to you, and a couple said they can get here this afternoon.” Anchor set her coffee down and tossed Tobin the bag
of zip-ties.
“The beds were designed for stacking—it’s pretty straightforward. If you can hit the next kennel, we should have this done in about an hour. Then we’ll be ready to pick them up. They’ll all need baths, and some of them will need light grooming. It’s going to be a full day.”
“Sure thing. Do you need me to go with to retrieve them, or do you and Jodi have that covered? I can stay here and finish prepping while you handle the transfer.”
“That would be great. All the kennels need to be scooped and hosed out. When that’s done, you can take a few of the resident dogs out to the yard—let them burn off some energy and hopefully reduce the anxious barking when the new ones arrive.
If you see any that get along, go ahead and double them up when you bring them back in.
I think it’ll work better to keep the two groups separate if we can avoid it. ”
“That makes sense,” Tobin said, positioning a bed into the bunk formation she’d watched Anchor assemble.
They worked in focused silence for the next forty minutes before Anchor and Jodi left for the transfer.
Tobin stayed behind, moving through the kennels with methodical precision.
When she finished, she stopped by the laundry room to check on Eli, who seemed to have things under control.
Satisfied, she returned to the kennels and let six of the dogs into the enclosed yard to play.
Tobin loved dogs. They’d always had one or two at a time when she was a kid, filling the house with fur and steadfast loyalty.
She longed for one now, but it didn’t feel fair when work had her away for two or three nights at a time.
Someday, she promised herself. Maybe after the baby was a few years old, and her career had finally bent to the rhythm of motherhood.
In the meantime, volunteering at Fetch a Friend filled that ache. The work was difficult—often dirty—but deeply fulfilling. She got to spend time with dogs that needed her love as much as she needed their slobbery gratitude.
She’d started about four years ago, after stopping to pet a pup at a festival booth Anchor had set up for the rescue.
Anchor sensed her love of the animals, and when she learned she wasn’t in a position to adopt, she countered with a request to volunteer.
Tobin started volunteering the following week.
Now, she tossed a tennis ball for the larger dogs, then played a strange game of tag with the terriers. As she closed the door to the final kennel—having successfully bunked twelve of the dogs together—she heard the crunch of tires on gravel. The rescue van was back.