Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
He'd toured it before Gayle had called about the socialization session.
He'd walked through the empty rooms with the realtor, and somewhere between the kitchen window that looked out over the backyard and the small alcove that would be perfect for a Christmas tree, he'd realized he wasn't going to walk away from this one.
He'd put down the deposit twenty minutes later.
Now, sitting in his car, he felt a strange combination of terror and relief. He was doing this. He was actually doing this.
He hadn't told anyone. Not his colleagues, not the few extended family members he kept in touch with, not even Gayle.
He wanted to surprise her. He wanted to show her how much his life was changing because of Presti and because of her.
He'd been picturing it for weeks. The look on her face when she realized that he was in this for the long run.
Of course, that was before she'd started pulling away.
Corey leaned his head back against the headrest and stared at the ceiling of his car.
The plan still felt right. He just wasn't sure when the right moment to spring it on her would be.
Whatever was happening with her had been getting worse, not better.
The text exchanges had grown shorter. Their last phone call had felt like talking to a stranger.
Maybe she needed time. Or maybe this was the thing that helped her trust him.
He set his phone down and got out of the car. The first bell was about to ring, and he had a band class to teach.
He'd spent his evening packing and decluttering.
Not everything. Not the photos, not the records, not the few pieces of his mother's pottery she'd made in the year before she got sick. Those he was keeping. He'd find places for them in the new house, places where he could see them every day and remember.
But the rest of it—the unworn coats in the hall closet, the stacks of magazines his father had subscribed to, the kitchen gadgets that had been used twice and then forgotten in a drawer—that he was sorting through.
Some things were going to donation. Some things were going to friends and neighbors who'd loved his parents. Some things were going to the trash.
It was harder than he'd thought it would be.
The first night, he'd opened his mother's bedside drawer and found a half-finished crossword puzzle from the week before she'd died. He'd sat on the edge of the bed for almost an hour, staring at her handwriting, before he could put the puzzle in the box.
And the next night, when he'd opened the hall closet and seen his father's old fishing jacket—the green canvas one with the stained pocket from a leaking thermos of coffee on a dock somewhere—he'd held it for a long time.
Then he'd put it on a hanger by itself, set it aside to keep, and continued going through the rest of the closet.
It was a strange, painful kind of sorting. Like saying goodbye again and again.
But every night, when he was done, he felt lighter.
Saturday came, gray and cold, with a wind off the water that made the windows rattle.
Corey loaded Presti and his favorite squeaky toy into the car at one-forty-five and drove to the shelter.
The puppy stuck his head between the front seats, panting happily, completely unaware that he was being delivered for a socialization assessment with the woman who hadn't been returning Corey's calls.
"You're going to have a great time, buddy," Corey said, scratching behind Presti's ear. "She'll bring you home this evening."
The shelter parking lot was nearly empty when he pulled in. He carried Presti to the front door and let himself inside.
Gayle was at the reception desk, doing something on her laptop. She looked up when the bell chimed, and Corey saw her smile. It didn't reach her eyes.
"Hi," she said.
"Hi." Corey set Presti down, and the puppy immediately ran over to Gayle, jumping up on her legs with his tail wagging. She crouched down to greet him, and her hands were gentle as she stroked his ears.
"Thank you for bringing him," she said, not looking up.
"Of course." Corey hesitated. "How long do you think you'll need him?"
"A few hours. I'll text you before I bring him back."
"Okay." Corey waited a beat, watching her. She was still focused on Presti, scratching under his chin in a way that had the puppy practically melting into the floor. "Is everything all right?"
"Everything's fine." She glanced up, finally, and her eyes were guarded. "Just a busy day."
"Right." Corey nodded, not sure what else to say. "I'll see you in a few hours, then."
He let himself out. The bell chimed behind him.
Corey was at the hardware store, picking up a box of contractor bags for the rest of the packing, when he heard his name.
"Mr. Roberts!"
He turned to see Tom Richardson coming down the aisle. "Tom. Good to see you."
"You too. How's that puppy of yours? Still tearing up your condo?"
Corey smiled. "He's doing well. Slowing down on the chewing, finally. How's everything with you?"
"Oh, can't complain. Looking for new hinges for the kitchen cabinets." Tom shook his head. "But hey, funny coincidence. The Beaumonts—you know the Beaumonts? They live across the street from us, two boys—they're adopting a dog today. From the shelter."
Corey's stomach did something strange. "Oh?"
"Yeah. Their son Tyler is in your, no wait, he's a freshman, you wouldn't have him yet. Anyway, they're picking up a puppy this afternoon. Sarah was telling my wife this morning. They've been following the shelter's Instagram and fell in love with this little tan puppy. White blaze on the chest."
Corey heard the words but didn't process them right away.
A tan puppy. White blaze on the chest.
"Today?" he asked. His voice sounded strange. Far away.
"This afternoon. They were going to do the meet-and-greet I think. Are you all right? You look pale."
"I'm fine." Corey tried to smile. He wasn't sure if he succeeded. "Just—just thinking about something else. Thanks, Tom."
He left the hardware store without buying the contractor bags.
Corey pulled out his phone and called Gayle as he got into his truck.
She didn't pick up.
He waited two minutes, then called again.
This time she answered. "Hi. Sorry, I was—is everything okay?"
"No," Corey said. He kept his voice very level. "Listen, I ran into Tom Richardson at the hardware store, and he mentioned his neighbors are adopting a puppy from the shelter today. He described a tan puppy. White blaze on the chest."
The silence on the other end of the line was long enough to confirm everything.
"Corey—"
"Are they adopting Presti?"
"It's a meet-and-greet. Nothing is final."
"But you scheduled them to meet him today."
A pause. "Yes."
"And you didn't tell me."
"Corey. I didn't want to get your hopes up. Or your worries up. The Beaumonts might not be the right family. He might not respond well to them. There are a hundred ways this could not work out, and I didn't see the point in?—"
"In what? In telling me you were trying to find him a permanent home? In telling me you'd scheduled an adoption meeting with a family I've never heard of, for the dog who's been sleeping on my couch for the last month?"
"He was always going to be adopted, Corey. That was always the plan."
"I know that." Corey's voice cracked despite himself. He took a breath, steadied it. "I know that was always the plan. But…"
"You're his foster. I'm his shelter director. There's a process, and there are reasons for the process."
"Don't do that," Corey said. "Don't hide behind your professional role like we haven't been—like we haven't?—"
He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't know how to.
The silence stretched out between them.
"I should be there," he said finally. "If this meeting is happening, I should be there. I've been with him every day for the last six weeks. I know him better than anyone. I should at least be allowed to meet the people who might be taking him home."
"Corey, I don't think?—"
"Don't tell me what you think. I'm coming."
He hung up before she could respond.