Chapter 5 #2
since he’s worked himself into an uproar thinking I’m never going to settle down, that my Brooklyn friends are bad influences.
All the Wendys becoming Peter Pans, the most wonderful plot twist of our generation, but my parents don’t see it that way.
Chris starts reciting a bunch of directions that he wants me to follow for watching Arnie, like the exact route to take him
out on a walk twice a day. North on Greenwich Street, west on Hubert, down to the end of Pier 26, and back. And it’s the same
thing for the dog food. One and a half scoops at 8:15 a.m. and 7:30 p.m. with a half scoop at 1:45 p.m., and on and on he
goes. There’s no question he’s an accountant. All that attention to detail makes me crazy just listening to it. It feels like
a construction drill is pressing into my skull.
“You can sleep in the spare room,” Chris says. “The sheets are fresh.”
My toes curl and my lips too. “Does Olivia know I’m staying here?” I ask.
He blushes rose gold at that, flattering evidence of how he really feels about me. He says that no, he didn’t mention to Olivia
which of his friends was taking care of Arnold; it just hadn’t come up, and he’s not trying to hide it or anything. That makes
me smirk like sunshine.
Chris starts arranging color-coded lists with all the information, displaying them so prominently on the counter that no one
could miss them unless they were really trying to.
“You know I’m not really going to look at those, right?” I say.
His forehead creases into well-practiced lines, probably written by all that vapid stress about work and relationships and the life track he thinks he’s supposed to be on. “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
“Remember why you asked me to dogsit?” I say.
“I’m having a bit of a hard time now.”
“It’s because I’m different,” I say, and we both know I’m right. If he’d wanted just another follow-the-directions type, he
never would’ve called me.
Arnie wags his tail like he’s trying to tell Chris not to worry, that he wants a change of pace with a zany playmate. I expect
Chris’s risk-averse nature to take over and talk himself out of it, but he just nods and swallows his anxiety in one gulp.
Chris gets his luggage, a wheely suitcase that’s excessively large for just a weekend away. It’s like he’s packed four backups
of everything, just in case. He spends a long time triple- and quadruple-checking that he hasn’t forgotten anything and that
all the outlets are unplugged and that the windows are locked and that the spare key is in the envelope on the counter. It
makes me feel a rush of compassion at how hard it must be for him to need everything to go a certain way. It’s easy for me
to make fun of routines because of how free-spirited I am, but it’s just not how some people are wired.
An uncomfortable sensation shifts inside me, like a hug is trying to paw its way out. I don’t embrace Chris; I just arrange
my face in a way that I hope he’ll interpret as genuine.
He tells me to help myself to whatever food I want, and he’ll be back Sunday night by seven thirty. “Oh, and please give Arnold
the filtered water. I don’t trust the quality of the tap water in the city.”
“I’ve got it taken care of,” I say. “Arnie and I are going to have a grand ole time.”
Still looking apprehensive, Chris turns around as he’s halfway out the door. I expect him to rattle off one last instruction, but he just meets my eyes like he’s seeing straight through the navy of my lenses. “Thanks, Emily Jane,” he says. “This means a lot.”
I get sort of squirmy inside because I don’t like making direct eye contact when I’m sober. It’s too intimate. But there’s
also a part of me that wants to hold the gaze longer.
I look away, back to Arnie. His tail is swinging back and forth like it’s swatting invisible flies or maybe fairies.
“You’re paying me,” I remind Chris. “You don’t thank your employee.”
“Sure you do,” he says, and he’s right. It boosts my view of Chris a bit more. It’s actually pretty high by now.
Arnie doesn’t react well to Chris being gone. He goes berserk, like he’s scared he’ll never see him again. I have to keep
telling him that everything’s going to be okay, that we’re going to have lots of fun together and Chris will be back in just
a few days.
It’s weird, but I miss Chris right away too. It’s probably just because I’m never home by myself at the Inn. Hal or Tara or
Jenni is always around so I’m not used to being alone. I’m not really alone, though, because I’ve got Arnie. He’s great company
once he settles down.
We curl up together on the couch and watch an action movie that’s way too predictable. The ending doesn’t surprise me at all
and it doesn’t surprise Arnie either. He doesn’t bark once, sees through it all. I bet he’d like my scripts way more.
After the movie, I explore the jarringly large fridge and raid some ripe avocados and hummus.
The hummus doesn’t have enough flavor, so I find some minced garlic in the spice drawer and dash it on until it’s gone.
After poking around all the brass-knobbed cabinets stocked full with blenders and air fryers and bread machines that look completely unused, I rummage through the items on the coffee table.
It’s all very predictable—Economist magazines, Yale coasters, a book of top-ranked golf courses in the world with certain pages earmarked as if Chris has planned
out every vacation from now until his eighty-third birthday.
On the shelf above the coat closet, there’s a leather-bound photo album that I flip through. It’s from Chris’s childhood.
He had these huge circular glasses and an underbite. He was a cute kid and probably not part of the popular crowd, which is
always a nice trait. But it seems he’s been wearing a corporate costume his whole life. There’s a photo of him in a full suit
in church when he’s probably eight or nine. Looks like his first Communion.
I think back to my own first Communion, how I wouldn’t even recognize that girl anymore, how it was the first and last time
I’d ever wear a puffy white dress and a veil. I’m proud of my transformation, how I’ve broken free, but it makes me sad too.
I’m not sure why and I don’t want to know, so I just shove the feeling away and focus instead on all the pictures with Chris
and this boy, his big brother. He looks a lot like Chris but blonder and less nerdy, standing confidently in his Little League
baseball uniform like he knows he’ll be recruited by college scouts one day.
Chris’s parents don’t look as prim as I’d expected. They’ve got this warmth about them even in 2D and they do appear to be
in love, but pictures lie like that. I’ve got a whole stack of happy-looking pictures of my own parents, and that doesn’t
mean a damn thing.
I want to have a drink but I feel like Arnie wouldn’t like it if I evolved or devolved into my drunken state, so I stick to the lime seltzer and then draw a hot bath in the Jacuzzi-sized tub.
There are some bath bombs next to the faucet.
I bet Olivia has left them there. It makes me want to use all of them up, so I go a little wild dropping them into the tub, watching them explode with colored foam.
They’re too saccharine in their smell, but I love the way they froth up around me and make the water all murky so I can’t see myself under it.
After my bath, I go into the spare bedroom. The queen bed feels big, too big, so I return to the couch and fall asleep there
instead with my arm wrapped around Arnie and his paw wrapped around me.
I never cuddle humans, only dogs. Except for the Redstockings, of course. They’re the exception to every rule.