15. Emmy
Snowflake needs to pee.
Most days begin this way now that she’s sleeping in my room. I’d have expected to find it more irritating than I do, but she’s a good girl, shifting restlessly as she waits for me to rise. It’s not her fault I’m a light sleeper.
It’s at least an hour until the guys are here to work in back. I pull a cardigan over my pajamas and take her downstairs. She bounds out the door happily and I follow, standing on the porch. The air is soft this morning, like early spring rather than summer, and I’m in a weirdly good mood, though I don’t know why. I feel the way I used to as a kid—light as air, full of hope, as if the world contains too many good things to be squeezed into my day.
Which it doesn’t. At all. I know this.
Snowflake pees and then runs around the yard. “I’m not going back in the woods after you, so don’t even think about it,” I call.
She listens this time but waits, looking toward me expectantly.
I have no idea what she wants, but I’ve got a few minutes. The grass is damp beneath my bare feet as I venture into the yard.
I grab a stick. “Um, fetch?”
I toss it. It’s a small thrill when she bounds away and brings it back to me, proud as a toddler producing her first stick-figure drawing. I throw it again, going farther. It’s a lot more satisfying than I’d have thought, making someone or something happy.
“Good girl,” I say, squatting low to sink my hands into her fur. She licks my face, which is absolutely vile given other things she’s licked. “That’s sweet, Snowflake, but no thank you. I’ve seen where you put that tongue.”
She does it again and I laugh. “We’ll work on it. You’re a good girl anyway.”
“I thought you were allergic to the yard,” says a soft voice. “And possibly the dog.”
My head jerks up. Liam is approaching from the side of the house, two massive beams of wood over one shoulder.
“I’m not allergic to anything except for strangers on my property at the crack of dawn.” I rise stiffly, pulling my cardigan close over my silk cami and sleep shorts. “Why are you here so early?”
He shrugs. “I’m getting stuff set up here since I’ll be downtown all day. Got this really demanding client. She wants me to install a bunch of seats in a theater and potentially build her a bookstore.”
“She sounds amazing.”
He gives me a reluctant half smile, a flash of teeth. “She’s okay.”
My heart gives an odd, hard thump. We aren’t enemies anymore, and I guess I already knew that. But there’s something in that she’s okay—weak vote of approval though it is—that makes me feel as if I’ve won the lottery.
And it makes me wish we were friends. It makes me wish I deserved to be his friend.
“Come on, Snowflake,” I say, turning toward the house. “Let’s let yard boy do his work.”
I don’t look back, but I get the feeling he’s smiling. It’s only as I walk in the door that I realize I am too.
* * *
“The hardwood is uneven,”I tell Gary.
“It’s fine,” he says.
I take a deep inhale, trying to control my rage. “Here’s how this works, Gary: you, the contractor, aren’t the one who gets to decide it’s fine. If I, the client, want to decide it’s fine, that’s on me, but I, the client, have not decided it’s fine because it’s fucking appalling, so you need to fix it, pronto.”
He throws out his hands. “The floor is level! It just looks like it’s not because we’ve only done half, and we need to add shoe molding along the back wall. The fixtures are coming in soon so there’s no time to tear this out and redo it, which would be crazy anyway because it’s fine. You’ll see.”
“I won’t see,” I reply. “And if you put down the rest of that hardwood and it can’t be salvaged when I tear it out, I promise I’ll be suing you for the full three hundred grand it cost.”
I turn away, already texting Stella.
See what we need legally in order to fire Gary and how much we can get back of what we’ve already paid. And see if you can find another company to do the job.
Stella
I swear ninety percent of my job is helping you fire people.
And yet you have no qualms about being a smart-ass with me, which is fascinating.
In order for you to fire me, you’d first need to make ME hire my replacement. We both know that wouldn’t work out well for you.
Whatever. Just make sure I can fire Gary.
When I get home with groceries in the afternoon, my mother watches me unpack. “You’d better not be sneaking food in your room,” she says with narrowed eyes. I set a can of tomato sauce on the counter with a heavy thud.
Am I angry over the accusation or am I ashamed because she’s right? I am keeping food in my room. Just protein bars so that I know I have something to eat if things get bad. So that on those nights when she’s judging me, I won’t go to bed starving.
“I’m twenty-eight,” I reply. “What leads you to think I need to sneak food anywhere?”
Her gaze drops to my ass. I’ve never been one of those flat-assed girls, no matter how badly I’ve wanted to be. “You’re definitely eating something. Have you even weighed yourself since you got home?”
I grip the counter while my stomach tightens, fighting the panic in my chest. Am I gaining weight? Shit. I don’t think I’ve gained anything, but the mere possibility of it is enough to make my skirt feel too tight.
I march out of the room without a word, changing into yoga clothes and driving straight back downtown. Chloe’s the only one in the yoga studio. My shoulders drop in relief.
I’m not in the mood for other participants, and I like the way her constant chatter distracts me—she’s relatively new to Elliott Springs, having only moved here recently with her boyfriend, but she’s surprisingly knowledgeable about the town’s residents. She’s friendly with everyone it seems—Jeannie, who owns the diner; the old guy who owns the garden center; the teenage girl protesting the destruction of Shaw Lake.
I enjoy getting Chloe’s detailed rundown of who has slept with whom, who’s fighting, and who’s broke. Today, though, it’s not quite enough to deplete my anger at Gary and my mom.
“You’re still in a bad mood,” she comments toward the end of the session, going into downward dog.
I follow suit. “My mother had surgery. It’s been trying.”
She falls out of position and turns to me. “Oh, I’m so sorry.”
“I’m not in a bad mood because I’m worried about her,” I reply. “I’m in a bad mood because she told her doctor that I’m some freeloader when the only reason I’m at her house is to take care of her. Oh, and today she implied I’d gained weight.”
“Man, your mom really is a cunt and a half, isn’t she?” she asks, which makes me laugh so hard that I fall out of downward dog entirely, collapsing to my knees.
“You’re a yoga teacher,” I gasp, wiping away tears. “Aren’t you supposed to be all namaste and ‘make peace with the pain?’”
She grins. “There’s a reason they only assign me to the classes no one shows up for. Speaking of which, I want a burger. You want a burger?”
Suddenly, I do. I really, really do.
Even as I tell her no, I wish I could agree. I wish I could afford to make someone here my friend.