by Julia London
“But I . . .”
“Bye, Carly!” Mia had said cheerfully, and her tall, handsome husband waved at her from the living room.
So Carly had gone home to Sad Bax without a glass of wine and none at home. While Baxter lay at her feet, Carly went through her finances to see how long she could hang on in her little house. She figured she could cover five full months of rent and bills. Had it not been for the impulsive purchase of the Louis Vuitton Neverfull bag from her favorite online consignment shop, she might have squeaked out six. Either way, she had about three months to either get a job in New York or bring in at least another client. Something.
She was going to need help if she didn’t get something really soon.
She checked the status of the applications she’d submitted for jobs in New York. Two positions—one at a fashion website start-up, the other as an assistant to the digital marketing department head at Bergdorf Goodman—had been filled. Another application was for a position that was still open, and another application was “in process.” Whatever that meant.
Carly had to get up the nerve to check Couture. She thought she shouldn’t even bother, and expected to see big red X’s drawn through her application status, signed personally by Ramona McNeil. But amazingly, both applications were listed as “pending.” Well then. Carly had listened to enough episodes of Big Girl Panties to interpret that as a good sign—it meant she wasn’t yet out of the running. At least in theory.
She spent the rest of Saturday scouring the job listings on ZipRecruiter, Monster, Indeed, and Glassdoor. She submitted two applications at two different companies for copywriter positions. Copywriting was not her favorite thing, but the jobs were in New York, and they paid enough to at least allow her to perhaps rent a room from someone.
After that, she turned on her TV and scrolled through the listings. She hadn’t watched TV in so long that she didn’t know what she was looking for. She landed on an episode of Below Deck, but even the idea of gliding around the Mediterranean on a luxury yacht couldn’t keep the restlessness from her. She turned off the TV and tried to sleep, but really just thrashed around on her bed, kicking her feet and pummeling her fists into a pillow that said Love Yourself and the Rest Will Follow—an impulse buy after hearing one of Megan’s podcasts.
Carly was not one to participate in pity parties. She really wasn’t. But sometimes she had to wonder why this was happening to her. She’d done everything right. She’d gotten good grades in school, had gotten a good job, and had worked hard. She’d been a decent daughter, a better sister. She didn’t do drugs or drink much. She’d done everything right. It was not supposed to be this way. She was supposed to have it all by now, not be worrying about how to pay her rent.
She groaned and rolled over onto her belly, burying her face in her pillow, her arms splayed wide. Man down. Baxter managed to haul himself up on the bed and licked her arm until she finally sank her fingers into his flesh and petted him.
This was a Saturday night when really good sex would come in handy. She thought of sex with Max, which was probably amazing, but that seemed like a pretty far-fetched possibility, and if she didn’t stop thinking about it, she was going to make herself crazy.
She rolled over and sat up, and on a whim, she texted Naomi. What are you doing?
Three dots appeared on the bottom of her screen and danced around for a few moments, then disappeared. Naomi was doing something fun, she guessed. Probably having really good sex like most of the world on a Saturday night, and she did not have time to entertain her broke friend in Texas.
Baxter pressed the length of his body against her leg and sighed loudly.
“You know what, Baxie?” she asked, stroking his back. “If this was a rom-com, my application would land in the in-box of a handsome executive who would send it back with a gruff demand to submit the application again but with the correct information, and I would take issue with his tone and demand my application back, which of course he would not give me because he would realize he needed someone as spunky as me in his company, and then, of course, in his life.”
Baxter lifted his head down by her feet and looked back at her.
“But this ain’t no rom-com, kid. I’m in serious trouble. I might have to get a job at the barbeque place on the corner.” She shuddered.
Baxter lay his head across her shin.
“I know,” Carly whispered. “Not ideal.” Unshed tears blurred her vision.
Eventually, she did fall asleep, because the next thing she knew, sunlight was streaming into her room. Baxter was gone, probably having retreated to his corner. She sat up and pushed hair from her face. She looked at the window and the dappled shadow of leaves dancing across her wall. And then she remembered.
Today was Sunday. Today was the Yard Bar.
She hopped out of bed with a squeal, her good spirits returned to her. “Baxter!” she shouted. “Let’s go see Hazel today!”
She heard Baxter scramble to his feet and heard him racing down the hall. He tried to leap on her bed but couldn’t get enough lift and fell backward before popping back up and prancing around, panting with delight.
So what if her life was falling apart? Carly was almost as excited as Baxter.
Eleven
Carly was the first to arrive at the Yard Bar that afternoon. She paid the daily fee, stepped inside the gate, and set Baxter free. He took off, his nose to the ground and tail high. He stopped to investigate a woman who was setting up to play guitar. She politely ignored him, and Baxter moved on to more interesting smells.
Carly headed to the bar.
An older woman, with a round face and gray hair cropped so short that it stood up on her head, and a glittery gold nose ring, stood in the window of the food trailer. “Hi!” Carly said brightly. “I would like something to drink that is sunny and fun after a very bad Saturday. What do you recommend?”
“The Rescue Me,” the lady said. She leaned over the counter window and pointed at a chalkboard. The Rescue Me boasted vodka with ginger beer and spices and flavorings.
“That looks so sunny I might get sunburned,” Carly said.
“That looks like a good Sunday to me,” the woman opined.
Carly looked at the ingredients again. “Okay!” she said. “Let’s do it.”
“Make it two.”
Carly turned around with a smile so wide she could feel her cheeks cramping with it. “Well, hello, Professor Brainiac.”
Max smiled with his snowy white teeth and his dimples and his dark scruff, and Carly felt very fluttery. Max opened his mouth to reply, but before he could utter a word, the baying of a hound interrupted them. She and Max burst into laughter at the same moment and turned to see Baxter and Hazel in the middle of the yard, wrestling each other to the ground. Hazel broke free and took off on a new scent trail, and Baxter trotted besottedly behind her. They were joined today by a small brown mutt desperate to gain the bassets’ attention, but Baxter only had eyes for Hazel, and Hazel only had eyes for possible food sources.
“I think Baxter is going to ask Hazel to marry him,” Carly said.
“Ya think? If they get married, who will have custody?” Max wondered aloud.
“Obviously you,” Carly said.
“Funny you should say that.” He smiled down at her, his gaze moving over her face. “I thought obviously you.”
The fluttery feeling turned to pure delight, and Carly giggled. The seventeen-year-old was back and inhabiting her body again.
“Here’s your drinks,” the woman at the counter said.
Max reached for a wallet in his back pocket. “Want something to eat?” he asked Carly.
She always wanted something to eat, unless she had flutters in her belly like she did now. “Oh, I—”
“Yeah, you do,” he said with a wink. “Let’s have the hummus plate,” he said, squinting at the chalkb
oard, and looked at Carly for approval. She nodded. “And some of those lucky puppies. Oh, and throw in some of those weenie bites for the dogs.”
“Oh, I—”
“I know, it’s not in the manual,” Max said. “But it’s the weekend.”
She couldn’t argue with that.
“Coming right up,” the lady said.
Max opened his wallet and took out some bills. “How’s your weekend so far?”
Oh, but her weekend had sucked until this very moment. “Busy! My fashion guy is depressed.” She tasted her drink. It was delicious. She was beginning to feel rescued and sunny and happy again.
“Oh yeah?” Max tossed the money onto the counter. “What’s wrong with Calvin Klein?”
“Ooh,” she said, nodding appreciatively. “Points for knowing the name of your underwear designer. To answer your question, Calvin has had his confidence shaken by some unkind comments on social media,” she said. “And now he won’t get off the couch.” She paused. “Like, literally won’t get off the couch. He won’t work and he’s tossed out everything he’s been working on. He’s in the throes of a major funk.”
“That’s not good,” Max agreed.
“I’ll bring the food out to you,” the lady said, waving them on.
Max gestured to a nearby picnic table with an umbrella. They sat side by side on the bench, using the table as a seat back, facing the small concession. They sipped their drinks for a few moments, listening to the young woman sing. Her style was bluesy and melodic, her voice raspy.
“She’s really good,” Carly said.
“She is.” Max sipped his drink. “Sorry to hear about fashion guy. Does this mean you won’t be wearing any more . . . high fashion?”
She slanted him a look. “How dare you. I will never quit wearing high fashion . . . at least as long as I have a designer for a client.”
Max laughed. “What’s going to happen with him, do you think?”
“Good question. My father warned me I would deeply regret dropping psychology my freshman year. I think it would come in handy right about now because I don’t know how to deal with him. Have you ever been in a major funk?”
Max shook his head. “Nothing more than garden variety, I guess. What does his funk mean for you? I know you’re his publicist, but I don’t know what that means, exactly, especially if he’s not making things for you to publicize.” He paused and looked at her. “What do you do, anyway?”
“I try and get him noticed. And that’s the thing. I had a spot for him in front of the creative director at Couture magazine. She could really make his career, you know, but Victor is choking.”
“Tell me,” he said.
Carly told him everything. About the work she’d done to get Victor back in the fashion conversation. The blogs, the interviews, the photo shoots. She told Max how Victor was to be featured in the New Designer Showcase, but was removing pieces and replacing them with things that looked bad to her untrained eye. How she feared he would lose all his confidence and, horror of horrors, not show at all.
“Wow,” Max said. “That doesn’t sound good.”
“Nope. If Victor bows out of that show, it will be a huge blow to me. I obviously can’t afford to lose another client right now.”
Max frowned. “So what will you do?”
“Hopefully, what I’ve planned to do all along,” she said. “I’ve been applying for public relations jobs in New York.”
The woman with the guitar began to play a folksy number.
Max paused with his cup halfway to his mouth and looked at her. “You’re moving to New York?”
“Well,” she said airily, “that’s the plan. I have to get a job first, and so far, I haven’t had much luck in that department, either. But it’s what I’ve been working toward for a while. I have this dream of getting a job in publicity or marketing, preferably in the fashion industry, and living my best life in the city that never sleeps.”
“Ah.” Max smiled thinly. He put a hand on her knee and squeezed it. “Would I be a terrible friend if I wished you continued to have no luck in that department? I mean, Baxter and Hazel have quite a thing going.”
“Yes, you would be a terrible friend,” she said, smiling. “You have to wish me all the luck, because Baxter is accustomed to eating kangaroo and sleeping on fluffy dog beds.”
“Fair enough,” he conceded. “Then I wish you all the luck, Carly.”
They sat in silence a long moment, listening to the music. Carly said, “You know, when I move to New York, you could come visit me and Baxter.”
“I might have to,” Max said. “Just to assure myself that Baxter has access to a couch. And it looks like I might have the time after all.”
“Really?” she asked, perking up. “Why?”
“Oh,” he said, and flicked his wrist. “That was a poor joke. It’s just that I thought I’d be getting tenure and starting a new research project, maybe getting a fat endowment in the process. But now I’m not so sure.”
She wanted to know more about that, but the lady appeared with red plastic baskets of food for them. Baxter and Hazel raced to the table to see if there was anything for them, and while Carly protested, Max tossed them each a weenie bite.
“You’re going to make them fat,” she laughingly accused him.
“Don’t look now, Carly, but Baxter was already fat when Hazel and I met him. Look me in the eye and tell me you aren’t feeding him mac and cheese every now and again.”
“I’m not telling you anything,” she said, and stuffed a carrot into her mouth. “Your turn . . . Why do you think you’re not getting tenure now?”
“Because I found out that another professor is in the running. Our department puts forward only one candidate a year for tenure, and sometimes none at all. Alanna is doing some amazing work around drug addiction. She’s gotten a lot of well-deserved media attention for it.” He smiled ruefully. “My work is not very sexy. But it’s important.”
“True confessions—I’ve been dying to ask what your work is, Max, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to follow. Like I said, a cricket trauma shut down my scientific education.”
He laughed. “It’s really simple. I’m studying the oxytocin system in dogs to better understand the neurohormonal basis of cognitive abilities.”
Carly laughed. “Dammit! My fears have been realized with only one sentence! I have no idea what you just said.”
He shifted around to face her. “There have been some studies conducted that suggest that some dogs have similar aspects of autistic behaviors that are found in humans.”
“You’re kidding,” Carly said.
“I’m not. For example, one study looked at bull terriers who chase their tails, right? Round and round they go,” he said, making a circle with his finger. “That behavior is similar to behavior in humans on the spectrum, like trancing and social withdrawal. It’s very OCD.”
“Yeah, okay,” she said.
“I’m finishing up a study on how autistic humans interact with dogs and how the human oxytocin system is affected. There is a cognitive reward system for both dog and human there that I’ve documented, especially as it relates to social behaviors. The second phase of my research is studying the canine oxytocin system. I’m hoping to discover some parallels in that reward system that are translational and that will inform either education modalities or even pharmacological interventions in autistic humans.”
He hadn’t completely lost her yet, Carly was pleased to see, but she had questions. “What is oxy . . .”
“Oxytocin,” he said. “It’s the hormone that has the most to do with social bonding.”
Carly couldn’t begin to imagine how he did that sort of work.
Hazel and Baxter raced by at that moment, in pursuit of a terrier. The woman with the guitar ended one song and then began to play an acous
tic variation of a song Carly had heard many times on the radio. It was lovely.
“Are you studying Hazel?” Carly asked.
Max laughed. “No. But I’m studying my brother. I found out yesterday he’s getting a dog from the ACC .”
“How fun! What’s he getting?”
“A Labrador.”
Carly grinned. “We had one growing up. That dog was a lunkhead—he actually ate the mortar from between the bricks on the back porch, and my dad had to replace it. But I loved that big black dog. Why doesn’t your brother already have a dog? I mean, given how much he loves them.”
He reached for a hush puppy. “My dad’s been against it, really. He has a lot on his plate as it is with Jamie’s care and didn’t want to add a dog to the mix. Jamie . . . he’s okay for the most part, but he does require supervision in a lot of things. At least that’s always been the reason. But it would appear my dad has changed his mind.”
He said something else, but Carly missed it. She found herself mesmerized by his handsome face. He had prominent cheekbones, which made his face appear lean. He had a very masculine face, she decided, all chiseled and perfectly proportioned and—
“Hello?”
Carly blinked.
“I was talking about my dad?”
“Yes! You were telling me . . .” A blush crept into her cheeks.
“That my aunt is the one who told me,” Max said. “Yesterday when I stopped by, my dad wasn’t even home. My aunt was there and said he’d gone out with friends.” He cocked one brow high above the other, glanced around them, and said low, “That was also new. My mom has been gone six years, but my dad never goes out with friends, at least not when Jamie is home. I’m wondering what’s up.”
He had tucked his collar-length dark hair behind his ears. What was it about men with longer hair that was so sexy? It was very Game of Thrones-y to Carly.
“I mean, it would be great if he did find someone to share his life with,” Max continued. “But I didn’t think it would ever be in the cards for him.”
Carly forced herself to stop ogling him. “Why not?”
