Chapter Two
E verett’s car is a powder-blue, rust-tinged vintage Volvo station wagon he informs me was his grandmother’s before she died and left it to him.
Then he apologizes for using the word died .
A silence follows that neither of us knows how to fill, until I say I’m sorry about his grandmother, but think it’s nice that he kept her CDs—an assortment of seventies-era light rock heavy on the Neil Diamond and John Denver—and that he listens to them in her memory.
He tells me the CDs weren’t his grandmother’s.
Another silence follows, one in which I have a new appreciation for childhood warnings not to get in cars with strangers.
Not because I think Everett is dangerous, but because the two of us are trapped in here for the next hour and it only took us five minutes to demonstrate our combined lack of social skills.
I study a tomato sauce stain on the jeans I slept in and should’ve changed.
He finds a staticky college radio station to replace the music on his CDs.
We leave the outskirts of Ithaca behind and follow a winding surface road through the surrounding farmland and the wooded patches that are just beginning to change color, hinting at the vibrant October hues that are still about a month away but always seem to arrive overnight, and then vanish just as quickly with the first hard autumn wind.
When Everett reaches for the volume at the same time I reach for the tuner, our eyes meet, we exchange an apologetic smile that has the fortunate effect of resetting the mood, and I can feel us both rallying to try again.
I’m about to ask if he has always lived in Ithaca but he speaks first.
“So, you’re studying to be a vet?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, thankful for the easy topic.
“It’s been my dream since I was a kid. I know it sounds cliché to say I’ve always loved animals, but I’ve always loved animals.
They feel things in a way we’ll never fully understand or be able to emulate.
Dogs especially. When they’re happy, they don’t question the meaning of that happiness, dissect its causes, or make ten-step plans for achieving it again.
They don’t try to moderate their happiness in case the other dogs think their happiness is uncool.
They don’t perform their happiness on social media, as if they’re only happy when their followers notice that they’re happy.
They don’t manufacture their happiness. They don’t curate their happiness.
They’re just happy , in the moment, embodying the feeling without restraint, analysis, or pretense. Can you imagine?”
Everett nods as though he’s giving my impromptu speech serious consideration.
Or maybe he’s tallying how many times I said the words happy or happiness .
“Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought,” he says.
I inch up a stiff shrug. “I have a lot of feelings about dogs.”
He slides me a sideways glance. “And about social media?”
“Guess I wasn’t so subtle about that.” I tug at a loose thread on the cross-strap of my seat belt, an obvious but necessary attempt to anchor my focus and buy myself some time.
Given the brevity of my acquaintance with Everett, I should probably refrain from telling him about my mother, and how social media became a platform for her unrelenting positivity, turning an annoying trait into an unbearable one.
She gets sick. She posts about how lucky she is to have a perfect, doting husband who takes such amazing care of her.
A friend receives a breast cancer diagnosis.
She posts triumphant photos of a charity 5K she ran with a caption about how strong she feels, and how inspired she is by her friend’s “journey.” Our beloved family dog dies.
She posts joyful videos from her long-awaited Italian vacation, the one she can finally take without worrying about leaving an old dog behind.
There’s always a bright side, with a pretty picture and jaunty caption to ensure everyone else sees the bright side. I find it all exhausting.
“Let’s just say I’m not a fan,” I tell Everett. “Anyway. What do you do?”
“I’m in marketing,” he says. “Mostly social media content and management.”
“Oh my god.” I throw my face into my hands, utterly mortified. “I didn’t mean—”
“No. It’s fine.” He holds up a hand to halt my protest, a hint of amusement dimpling his cheeks and creasing the skin beside his eyes. “It’s a complicated landscape. I get that. But there’s a positive side to it. And I don’t just mean for selling stuff.”
I peek out between my fingers, curious where he’s going with this. I spent plenty of time on social media in high school and college, but I have no regrets about leaving.
“You mean all the memes?” I ask, only half kidding.
He sneaks me another glance as he nudges his glasses up the bridge of his nose.
“I mean accounts with real impact like the digital activists informing people about climate change, disability rights, decolonization practices, and health care inaccessibility,” he says. “Or fun accounts like the Italian greyhound who’s a fashion influencer.”
I finally lower my hands, recalling some of the dog accounts I used to follow, though they were all just for fun, made by people who loved their pets, nothing approaching influencer status.
“A fashion influencer, huh?” I ask. “Whose fashion is she influencing?”
Everett’s cheeks dimple again. “You’d be surprised.”
I’m sure I would be , I think. Also, he really does have a nice smile. It’s warm, friendly, and a little reticent to fully bloom, a characteristic I respect in a smile.
Everett soon pulls onto the highway heading north.
As we settle into a slightly less uncomfortable silence and as I watch the landscape pass through my window, a low rumble of anxiety begins to roil in my belly, not the kind of anxiety I felt when I knocked on Everett’s door or tried to figure out what to say about his assertively musty but gloriously convenient car.
It’s the kind of anxiety I feel when I know I’m about to face something genuinely, profoundly hard.
The dog we’re about to meet will remind me of Lady Marmalade.
She’ll call up waves of grief I’m still learning to manage.
She has also been abused and neglected, which is always hard to see.
She’ll need a lot of help and I’ll need to be realistic about whether or not I can provide that help.
I’ll know, while looking into her eyes, that after all she’s been through, I’m her last chance, not just for a good life, but for any life at all.
What if I can’t do it? What if I have to let her die?
A warm hand wraps mine where I’ve balled it into a tight fist on my thigh.
“I really want to tell you that won’t happen,” Everett says, making me realize I spoke those last thoughts aloud.
“But I don’t know much about animal health and welfare.
I’ve never had a pet. And I don’t really know you, either, but I’m going to go out on a limb here and say I’m pretty sure you’ll only let her die if you’re confident it’s the right thing to do. ”
I bite down hard on my lip, holding back a swell of emotion.
Not from the warm hand around mine, or the gentle way Everett expressed his faith in me, or even just feeling a little less alone on this unexpected journey.
It’s his use of the phrase the right thing to do , rather than the only thing to do .
Because they’re not the same, and I’m really glad I won’t have to explain that.
“Thanks,” I say. “I hope so. I really, really hope so.”
F ORTY-FIVE MINUTES LATER , we’re walking through the glass door of Hounds and Hearts.
I’ve deep-breathed myself into a state of relative calm, helped by Everett’s rather charming efforts at maintaining a steady stream of distracting small talk in the car, guiding us through random conversational turns about recent TV favorites, growing up as either an only child (me) or the middle of three (him), a Korean restaurant we discover we both like, the origin of his first name from his birthplace near Seattle, and childhood team sports in which both of us did a lot of bench-warming.
After we parked, I thanked him for the ride and asked if he wanted to wait somewhere else while I met the dog and decided whether or not she was coming home with us—a nearby bookstore, maybe, or the cozy-looking diner across the street.
He said he preferred to come with me, as long as I’d be okay with that. Surprisingly, I am.
A rosy-cheeked thirtysomething woman in a hoodie that says My dog is smarter than your honor roll student greets us from a reception desk cluttered with novelty mugs, well-used office supplies, stacks of files with papers jutting from their open edges, jars of dog treats, and a few small houseplants that look like they’ll be lucky if they make it to October.
The woman introduces herself as Nora, the shelter administrator, janitor, cheerleader, and backup dog walker. Then she asks if I’m Cameron, her eyes brimming with hope.
“I am,” I say. “And this is Everett. He’d like to meet the dog, too.”
Everett nods politely while Nora’s face lights up.
“I’m so glad you brought your partner,” she says. “This is one of the toughest cases we’ve had come through here. I’m not sure anyone should take this on alone.”
“He’s not my partner,” I say reflexively.
“Sorry.” Nora winces. “Hasty assumption. Your friend, then.”
I’m about to clarify that he’s not my friend, either, when I realize Nora doesn’t need a debrief on my hour-long relationship with a guy I thought might give me a ride.
Also, calling Everett my ride or even a guy who lives in my building feels reductive now that I at least know he has two sisters named Dakota and Charlotte, and he likes his bibimbap with extra chilis.
“If there’s anything I can do,” Everett says, “I’m happy to help.”