You Lucky Dog

by Julia London

  “A cricket?”

  “They’re so gross, Max. What about you?”

  He couldn’t quite make the connection between crickets and science, but that was okay. “My interest in science didn’t happen until I was in high school. In sixth grade, I was noticing girls and all senses were pointed in that direction. In high school, my senses had expanded into additional interests. I was good at math and science, but I never really thought about it as a career. It had more to do with my brother, Jamie, really. His disorder fascinated me. Like, how things were so different for the two of us, how our brains could work so differently.”

  “How so?” she asked.

  Max thought about that for a minute. “Aside from his inability to really speak, he’s a bright guy. And he’s extremely artistic. Remember the drawing of the dog I showed you?”

  She nodded.

  “I remember in first grade his special ed teacher was sending home the drawings Jamie had made with notes about how advanced he was. So advanced in some ways, but so delayed in other ways. When I figured out I liked science well enough, I wanted to study more about autism and neurological disorders in general. I wanted to figure out ways to make things easier for him and people like him.” He smiled a little. “And there you have it.”

  She smiled, too. “What a lucky guy Jamie is to have you for a brother.”

  He thought maybe he was the lucky one. “What about you? Are you really a publicist?” he asked.

  “Ish,” she said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Publicity adjacent.” She giggled. “I mean, I am a publicist, but right now, I’m a little insecure about my skills. I lost a client this week.”

  “Oh, wow, sorry to hear that. Not the fashion guy, I hope. I was getting used to your, ah . . .” He searched for a word.

  Carly smiled, one brow rising above the other. She didn’t offer the appropriate word for him—she was going to make him say it.

  “The designs,” he said at last.

  “The designs!” she said gleefully.

  “Fine,” he said with a lopsided grin. “The costume things.”

  “The costume things?” She laughed. “Fortunately, I didn’t lose him. I lost another guy who—brace yourself—created something even more baffling than giant shoulders and long sleeves.”

  Max shifted around to face her. “Well, now I’m dying of curiosity. What could possibly be more baffling than that?”

  “The other guy made wooden circles.”

  “He made what?”

  She sketched a circle in the air with her hands.

  He shook his head. “Not getting it.”

  “Exactly! Who can get that? I have yet to find anyone who understands the circle thing.” She pulled out her phone, swiped up and down and all around the screen, then leaned lightly against him to show him a picture. It was a circle, all right. A highly polished round of wood.

  “That’s . . . definitely a wooden circle.” He looked at Carly just in case she was teasing him, then at the screen again. She leaned a little harder against him, holding up her phone. Max liked the feel of her touching him. He did not like the circles. “I’m sorry, I don’t get it.”

  “Thank you!” she exclaimed, and swayed away from him. “All this time I thought I was missing some art appreciation gene, but it turns out this dude is just making stupid circles. Some fat, some skinny, some really big, and some really small. But they are all circles.”

  “Let’s see it again,” Max suggested, and not because he needed to see that dumb circle, but because he wanted to feel her shoulder pressed against his arm again.

  They bent over her phone and looked at the pictures of circles as she swiped through. Her scent tickled his nose, reminding him vaguely of rain-soaked air.

  “I tried everything. Instagram, blogging, art publications—you name it. And they were all like, never heard of this guy, and, seriously, what is this? Once, I asked Gordon what the circles represented to him and he got mad at me.”

  “He got mad?”

  “Furious! He said it was art and he shouldn’t have to explain art to anyone, including the woman he’d hired to promote his work.”

  “Ouch,” Max said on her behalf.

  “I didn’t take it personally. He’s just an asshole.” She smiled at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

  Max slipped his hand under hers and lifted it so he could see the picture on her phone again. “If I may offer the opinion of a brain scientist?”

  “Please! I need the opinion of a brain scientist.”

  “That,” he said, pointing at the screen, “is just a wooden circle.” He kept his hand under hers and grinned. “You are right.”

  “How delightful! That’s not something I hear with enough regularity. Anyway, I quit him. What he wanted was a salesclerk to sit in a booth at the Pecan Street Festival. I wanted at least a little cooperation from him. But he wouldn’t give me any at all. So I quit.”

  “Sounds like you made the right call.”

  “No kidding,” she said. “He was so mad. And I haven’t told you the worst of it. Just before I quit, he . . .” She paused and looked sidelong at him, her blue eyes dancing with laughter. She was stifling a giggle.

  He smiled. “He what?”

  “I can’t believe I’m going to tell you this.”

  Her giggle was infectious. He was chuckling, too. “Tell me what?”

  “I walked in on him while he was diddling his housekeeper.” She slapped a hand over her mouth in pretend shock.

  Max laughed. “No way!”

  She nodded furiously, then told him the story, regaling him as if she were recounting a horror film she’d seen. “It was like Big Bird and his beak standing there,” she said with a shudder.

  Max doubled over with laughter.

  “Oh sure, yuk it up,” she said, laughing, too. “I can never unsee that, you know.”

  “Sounds like you and Baxter have had quite a week.” In fact, the dogs, exhausted from racing around, had wandered back to the picnic table and were stretched out beneath it.

  “We sure have. Right, Bax?” she asked, leaning over to look down at the dogs.

  Her cheeks were rosy and the tip of her nose red, and a warm flush erupted in the center of Max’s chest and slid down to his groin. He realized he was staring at her mouth. His amygdala was tossing out dopamine willy-nilly into the wrong neurons, because his idea of kissing her would be an impulsive thing to do. He was spared from possibly embarrassing himself when a woman with bright red, unkempt hair and wearing a leaf green coat walked by with a pug. The pug barked at Baxter and Hazel, neither of whom were concerned enough to even bark back.

  The woman jerked hard on the pug’s leash. “Stop that!” she hissed. “How many times have I told you that it’s rude to bark like that? They aren’t doing anything to you,” she said as she and the pug continued walking. “You have to stop barking at every dog you see. It’s rude.”

  Max looked at Carly. She was struggling to keep from laughing. “Do you think her dog speaks English?” she whispered.

  “I was just wondering the same thing,” he whispered back. “A talking dog, you think? But am I crazy? She reminds me of someone,” Max said. “Know what I mean? Animated character with the wild red hair.”

  Carly gasped. “I know exactly who she looks like!” she whispered excitedly. “Poison—”

  “Ivy!” he finished with her. “That’s it!” They both burst into laughter and high-fived each other. Max held on to her hand, and Carly fell into his shoulder again with a squeal of delight. Their laughter prompted Baxter and Hazel to crawl out from under the table and jump up, tails wagging, wanting in on the joke.

  Carly caught her breath and wiped a tiny tear from under her eye. She had to lean down and physically keep Baxter from trying to climb on the table. When
she did, she scooched away from Max. “More hot chocolate?” she asked.

  The opportunity to kiss her had slipped past. He’d blown it. “I would love some, but if I have more, I won’t be able to drive. What did you put in that, anyway?”

  “Kahlúa, of course. And maybe a little bit of vodka,” she said, holding up thumb and forefinger to indicate just how little.

  He grinned. “This was great, Carly. Thanks for texting me. But I should get going—I promised my brother I’d come by.”

  “Yep. I’ve got loads to do myself,” she said, looking down. “I guess we’re all on ye olde hamster wheel.”

  Max rounded up the dogs and leashed them while she put her thermos and cups into her bag and zipped it. The four of them walked to the gate and stepped out of the park.

  In the parking lot, Max paused and smiled at Carly. He wasn’t ready for this to end. But as usual, he couldn’t think on his feet quite fast enough.

  It felt a little like she might have suspected as much. She gave him a charmingly lopsided smile and said, “On behalf of Baxter, I thank you from the bottom of his heart.”

  “My pleasure, Baxter,” he said, without taking his eyes from her.

  “Well,” Carly said.

  “Well,” Max said.

  Neither of them moved. Hazel sat. Baxter lay down and rolled onto his back, paws in the air.

  Max and Carly kept staring at each other as attraction and general horniness swelled in Max again.

  “Okay, this is ridiculous,” Carly said at last. She suddenly stretched one arm out wide and stepped forward. “Bring it in, big guy.”

  “Oh.” He was caught off guard—she meant to hug him. He leaned into that hug, his arm going around her waist.

  She put her arm around his shoulders and rose up on her toes. “Thank you,” she said again, gave him a couple of hearty pats on the back, then stepped away from him.

  Before she took another step, before she escaped, Max blurted, “Maybe we should meet Sunday at the Yard Bar. I mean, if Baxter is free.” Because he didn’t know what else to say, and he didn’t want that hug to be the end, and he was looking in her eyes now and her pupils had dilated and his serotonin was mixing with his norepinephrine, and Baxter was looking up at him so ruefully.

  Carly’s dilated pupils sparked with delight, and once upon a time Max may have known the biology behind that, too, but he didn’t care, because the effect on him was to release a truckload of dopamine into his blood. A primal, copulatory smile spread across his face. It shone all through him. He couldn’t help it.

  “Heck, yeah!” she said cheerfully. “Baxter would love that place! You and Hazel are so kind to think of him.”

  He wasn’t kind. He was one hundred percent male and he was thrilled and filled with anticipation, and once they’d arranged a time and had gone their separate ways, he understood that he could hardly wait until Sunday afternoon and the Yard Bar. He felt like Jamie felt about the dog show. Yard Bar.

  Ten

  Well that was a grandma move if ever she’d seen one—Carly had hugged Max. She’d put her arm around him, had felt how hard his body was next to hers, and before she buried her face in his collar to inhale his scent, before she’d nibbled his earlobe, she’d patted him on the back like some long-lost cousin. She’d hugged him because her palms felt sweaty and she felt sort of light-headed, and what the hell had just happened?

  She drove away with Baxter panting happily behind her, thinking about how good Max had felt, how strong and thick and hard his body was against hers, and, damn it, she liked Max. If ever there was a case of mistaken first impressions, this was it, because once he’d shed a little denim, and had come back from Chicago without lying to her, he was a really nice guy. He was kind. He was obviously compassionate. And he was ridiculously handsome.

  Lord, she’d laughed at every little thing he’d said today, just tittering away. She’d found reasons to lean against him, too—in short, she’d reverted to her seventeen-year-old self. But in her defense, it had been a long time since she’d been so attracted to a man.

  She could not wait until Sunday.

  Unfortunately, Saturday arrived first to obliterate her most excellent mood created Friday evening.

  On Saturday, she had two depressed puppies on her hands. One was Baxter, of course, who fell into a state of despondency on Friday night when he was not with Hazel. This morning, he was lying curled up in a ball with his back to the world, his snout in the corner of the kitchen.

  Her other depressed pup was Victor. June had called Saturday morning and asked Carly to come to the studio and help her try and talk some sense into her son. Carly was beginning to hate that damned brown couch in his studio, because Victor had taken to lying on it, and did so almost all of Saturday. He had fallen into a funk and hardly spoke, and when he did, it was to tear himself down. He questioned his talent. “There wasn’t that much competition on Project Runway, not really.” He would not listen to arguments to the contrary.

  He stared off into space with his sad puppy dog eyes. At least Baxter closed his eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  Carly and June had tried to give Victor a pep talk. Or rather, Carly did. Like any mother would be, June was both alarmed and disappointed, and in her helplessness, she couldn’t help snapping at him. Carly couldn’t imagine what it was like to watch an insanely talented son piss away all that he’d accomplished.

  When rational talk didn’t work, June turned to shouting. “Get up off that couch, Victor Daniel Allen! You don’t know how lucky you are, you don’t appreciate the opportunity God has given you! You ought to be on your knees right now, thanking the Good Lord for steering you to this point.”

  “Don’t shout at me,” Victor said. “I’m sorry, Mom, I really am. I know you sacrificed so much for me, but I just can’t do this right now.” He covered his head with a pillow until his mother yanked it out of his hand.

  Carly tried a more positive approach. “All great artists have moments of self-doubt, Victor, and you’re a great artist, and you’re having your moment. You just need to give yourself a little time to refill the well. Take a break if that’s what you need,” she’d urged him, ignoring June’s murderous stare. “Just a couple of days. I know that if you take a couple of days and think it through, you’ll come out of that break stronger and more motivated than ever before.”

  Honestly, Carly didn’t know what she was saying. She was throwing out platitudes and words of encouragement hoping that something would stick. In all her years at public relations, no one had ever told her what to do with a client who didn’t want his work to be promoted. No one had ever told her how to deal with someone who was depressed.

  “You’re the one who keeps saying I don’t have time,” Victor said accusingly to Carly, and he was not wrong about that. “You keep saying that I have to come up with something because we’re going to lose opportunities.”

  “Yes,” Carly agreed. “I did say that. But now I have a better idea! That’s what I do.” She said that brightly, as if she were confident in what she was doing. She was not confident—she could see everything crumbling before her. She’d already screwed things up with Couture. Ramona was not going to give her another chance if she flunked this one.

  She desperately sought her memory banks for any motivating gems she’d picked up from Big Girl Panties.

  “You guys don’t get it,” Victor said, and rolled onto his back, staring up at the water-stained ceiling and exposed ductwork. “All it takes is one bad design, one bad moment, and that’s it. No one will want my designs then. I’ve seen it happen. So, like, it doesn’t matter how much time I take. What matters is what I put out there, and I keep thinking about that, and I keep thinking that these looks are not the right thing.”

  “But, Victor, you loved these pieces,” his mother said. “You can’t please everyone.”

  “That’s
right,” Carly agreed. “The only person you can truly please is yourself. That’s what you’ve been doing and look where it got you! So many people want your clothes. So many people follow you. Everyone wants to see what else you’ve got.”

  “You have to at least try, Victor,” June said. “If you don’t at least try, you’re going to burn everything down.”

  Carly winced. She was afraid June was right, and Victor would burn everything down, because he’d bought some shiny aquamarine fabric and at some point had made a signature blouse, complete with the oversized shoulders and long sleeves and a new twist—enormous, cartoon-like buttons. His innovative design suddenly looked like a Copacabana dance costume on steroids.

  June didn’t have the guts to tell Victor the aquamarine piece was hideous, probably because she was so desperate to get him off the couch and creating again. Carly knew that June was going to push her to do it, and she would have to do it. It wasn’t just her opinion—she’d snapped a picture and run it by a fashion blogger she’d become friendly with while Victor and June were arguing. She’d sent the picture to Carlos, asking for the strictest confidentiality and a simple question: Reaction?

  Girl, ugh, was his response. Hard pass.

  “Seriously, Victor, why don’t you take a little time off? Go to the skate park and try not to think about fashion.”

  “That’s impossible,” he’d muttered. “I can’t not think about fashion.” And then he’d rolled up to sitting, looked at Carly, and said, “But I can’t think about it right now. I feel sick.” He got up and went into the bathroom.

  There was no talking to Victor. Carly left there and went to Mia’s, hoping for a glass of wine and a sympathetic ear so she could vent about Victor. But Mia had shooed her out the door because Will had come home last night.

  “Where are the kids?”

  “With Grandma,” Mia said, pushing Carly to the exit. “I mean the responsible Grandma, and not our mother, who has not been heard from in two days. You should call her.”