Wait. Dare I call it a date?
Sure, why the hell not!
He really was putting an effort into his sartorial preparations. No flannel shirt over a T for this momentous occasion; he’d actually broken out a classic oxford button-down. He even put in some hair gel. I did, however, have to nudge him toward the khakis. Let’s face it, The Man is hopeless without me.
Finally, I grabbed one of his fancy leather dress shoes in my teeth, dragging it over to him.
“Gatz, I don’t have time for Throw the Shoe right now, buddy!”
I did my eye roll thing, dropping the shoe at his feet, staring at him until he got it.
“Oh, riiiight. Real shoes, not sneakers.”
That’s right. We’re adulting now.
As he dropped to the side of the bed to put the leather shoe on, I rushed off to try to find the other one in the chaos that is the bottom of his closet. Shoe partner located and delivered, I headed for the living room, figuring that before departing—ON. THE. BIGGEST. NIGHT. OF. HIS. LIFE.—maybe he might need some alone time.
Thus I was boredly looking over the New York Times when he finally emerged a short time later. He did a little twirl to show off for me. He’d traded up from my suggested khakis and was wearing a suit. A suit. The Man had put on a gosh-darned suit. Well, blow me down.
“So?” he asked, soliciting my opinion. “What do you think?”
What did I think? I let my tongue hang, panting my contentment. I thought he cleaned up pret-ty darned good.
“Do you think the flowers are too much?” he asked, anxious.
He was referring to an enormous bouquet of red roses, which he’d come home with earlier in the day and were now lying on the coffee table. The Man had gone out. The Man, rather than simply calling a florist and having them deliver the flowers to our door, had actually left our apartment and walked to the florist, so that he could select the flowers in person. He was totally Bruno Mars–ing the shit out of all of this.
I adamantly closed my mouth to hide my tongue contentment in answer to his question: No. The flowers were not too much. Nothing could ever be too much if it was for The Woman.
“OK,” The Man said. “Wow.”
Wow, indeed.
It was like he was trying to psych himself up because he was insanely nervous, but also like he was delaying a bit. I totally got that. Yes, he couldn’t wait to see her, to once again be in her presence in a potentially romantic capacity, but he was also scared that he’d somehow screw it all up and then that would be that. Like if it never started, he could never spoil it, in which case the possibility of it yet happening would still exist somehow and somewhere in the Universe.
Yeah, I got all of that. He had a lot on the line here. Well, you and me both, pal. You and me both.
“You do think I look OK?” He sought verification.
I barked my fool head off in affirmation.
“Dinner . . . dancing . . . wow. OK.”
He looked himself over in the wall mirror, checking his hair repeatedly. Then he moved to grab one of his ball caps from the coatrack.
I admit it: I growled.
“Right, right,” he said. “Leave the hat.”
I thumped my tail, showing my approval. Hey, I can play Carrot and Stick as well as anyone.
The Man checked his capless hair one more time. I knew he felt naked without his caps, but for once he was just going to have to deal.
“OK. OK. OK! OK.”
He looked to me, took a deep breath, and smiled.
“OK, buddy, I’m gonna head out now. I’ll tell you everything when I get home.”
I hope not! I hope you come home with her!
“I’ll see you soon.”
With one last breath in and out, The Man charged out the door.
Phew! He’d been procrastinating so much, for a moment there I worried he was going to make himself late. Relieved, I relaxed onto the floor, at peace. So much peace. But then . . .
The flowers. He left the flowers.
Oh no. Oh no no no no—
I grabbed the flowers in my teeth, bounding toward the door, heedless to the occasional prick of thorns. As I think has been previously established and documented, I’ll do almost anything in the service of love.
True Love, that is.
At the door, I started to bark, loudly, praying for The Man to hear me, praying for The Man to come back.
But The Man didn’t come back.
Come back! Come back! You forgot the flowers!
After a while, I had to concede that it was hopeless, and so I gave up, dropping the flowers dejectedly.
God, sometimes I wish he could hear me when I’m talking. I’m not asking for him to be able to hear me all the time, because that would be weird. But if he could just hear me during the occasional super critical moment, it sure would be nice.
I sighed, sulking, until . . .
It was then I experienced my own Light Bulb Moment.
Hmm . . . flowers . . .
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Same night . . .
Just like I only knew about what happened with The Woman and New Man that first time they met in London was from paying attention when she told her work girlfriends about it, I only know what happened with The Man and The Woman—first at her apartment, then at the restaurant, then at the dance club—because The Man told me all about it afterward. And it all went something like this . . .
The Man knocked at her door, like you do.
He felt like he waited forever for her to answer, but it had probably only been a minute. He figured she’d used that minute to steady her own nerves, hand on the doorknob, and then she opened it. But would she really have been nervous? Or was The Man simply projecting his own psychological state onto her? It’s always so hard to be certain when you don’t witness a thing for yourself.
Even though he’d last seen her just five days ago, when she’d dropped me off on Sunday night, she looked to him like she’d grown even more beautiful.
“Hi!” he said.
“You look,” she said, taking in his own appearance from gelled hair to fancy leather shoes, “incredible.”
“It’s really good to see you.”
“You too.”
And it was.
The words may have seemed mundane, on the surface, but it all just carried so much . . . meaning.
They stood in the doorway for a long minute, just grinning at each other.
“Are you . . . ready to go?” she finally prompted.
Suddenly, he remembered what he’d forgotten.
“Flowers!” If he hadn’t realized that he’d have looked like an idiot doing so and stopped in time, he would’ve hit himself on the side of the head. “Shoot, shoot, shoot . . .”
“You were going to buy me flowers?”
“I did buy you flowers.”
“And you left them at home.”
Sheepishly, he nodded.
“Well,” she said sincerely, “it’s the thought that counts.”
He was a great author, given to the occasional cliché. She was a great editor, given to the occasional cliché. See what I’m talking about? Made for each other.
“Is everything good?” she asked.
“Oh yeah! Everything’s fine.”
Amused, she laughed.
“OK,” she said. “Ready to go?”
“I’m ready.”
He grinned, watching her lock the door behind her, and they headed out.
Mid-July can be such a dicey time of year in the city. You’ve got Bastille Day to contend with (no one wants to lose their heads), and you should always beware the ides of any month (even when it’s not March). Not to mention, you’ve got climate change and all—hey, I’m no denier. Sometimes, it can be unseasonably cool, more like late Mar
ch in the evenings. Other times, you get a serious heat wave, harbinger of the long August to come. But that night, as they strolled to the restaurant, the evening air was perfect.
The restaurant he’d selected was fancier than the place he’d always taken her to. It may not have been as elegant as the upscale restaurant New Man had taken her to in London, but it was definitely better than Nick’s. I know all about it because I helped him Google.
Once they’d been led to their table, without hesitation The Man pulled out The Woman’s chair for her.
“Oh!” she said, surprised. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
He cleared his throat, studying the wine list, eschewing the strong desire to just order a Budweiser. He was really trying. He hoped she was charmed by how hard he was trying this time and didn’t just, you know, think he was a dork.
A waiter appeared to take their drinks order.
“Welcome,” he said. “What can I get you to start?”
“How about a bottle of your best”—he looked to her, hoping to get a read, but it’s impossible to mystically figure out a person’s of-the-moment wine preference based on facial expression alone—“red? White?” He paused, went for it: “Champagne?”
“Champagne would be lovely,” The Woman said.
“Champagne it is,” The Man informed the waiter decisively.
“I’ll have that right out for you,” the waiter said.
“Thank you very much,” The Man and The Woman said simultaneously.
As the waiter took the wine list and departed, The Man and The Woman shared a giggle at having been simultaneous together.
While another person might feel embarrassed at saying the dog had informed them of something, The Man experienced no such qualms about saying, “Gatz told me you broke up with the guy you were seeing—that, um, other writer. I’m really sorry.”
The Woman swallowed but forced a smile, waving it off.
“Some things aren’t meant to be,” she said, clearly not wanting to discuss it any further.
All he could do was nod knowingly. Some things weren’t meant to be, although he dearly hoped they’d both been wrong about them as a couple being one of those not-meant-to-be things.
“I’d much rather talk about your writing!” she segued brightly. “How’s it going?”
He’d meant his sympathy about her breakup. Whatever else he might have wanted, her unhappiness wasn’t on the list. But he was happy at the change in topic, because for once, he was excited to share.
“For a while there,” he said, “it was really hard. Nothing I was writing was any good.”
Now it was her turn to nod knowingly. She must have realized it would be hard for him, in the aftermath of their breakup, to go back to writing as though nothing was different, as if the days were the same as the ones that came before it with the only goal being to put decent words together on the page.
“In fact,” The Man continued, “the first book I finished after we, um, well, it was a piece of crap.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t—”
“No, it really was! Utter crap, so crappy, my editor didn’t even try to tell me how to fix it. We both knew it was a nonstarter.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Thank you for that. But it’s really OK! Because I finished a new book the other day.” The Man paused, sparkling in a way he almost never did. “I’m really happy with it.”
She fell backward in her seat like she’d been stunned. “But you’re never happy with your work.”
“I know!”
By this point, she must’ve been thinking: Who is this guy? Because whenever he’d been exclamatory in the past, it had mostly been from awkward energy, not the sheer joy he was displaying now.
“This time,” he continued, still filled with wonder at the very idea that this was happening to him, that circumstances could change, that the way he felt about things could change, “I am. My editor is happy with it too. He thinks it’s the best thing I’ve ever written.”
The Woman must’ve felt a little of what he was feeling then, it was that contagious: the idea that things can change, that whatever you thought was set in stone could improve for the better.
“Wow,” she said, admiration and respect and joy at his joy in her eyes, “I’d love to read it.”
“And I’d love to have you read it.”
They both settled back in comfort then. In that moment, they were truly happy, together.
Time passed as their champagne came, as their meals came: stuffed shrimp for her, because she never met a shellfish she didn’t like; something he’d never heard of for him, because why not be bold for once? At least culinarily.
They laughed, they smiled, poking fun at each other, practically spilling their drinks. They were experiencing, together, the muscle memory of love.
After the waiter brought the check and the check had been duly paid, The Man stood, holding out his hand to The Woman.
“Shall we go dancing?”
She nodded, taking his hand, a wide grin spreading across her face.
“I would love to go dancing,” The Woman said.
Holding hands, they walked out into the night together. There was so much hope in the air.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Meanwhile . . .
In the living room, everything was still. In fact, throughout almost the whole apartment, everything was still. The only exception was the bedroom, where I’d been busily at work.
The Man may have forgotten to take the bouquet of roses he’d so carefully selected, but that didn’t mean they had to go to waste. I’d taken it upon myself to dismember said bouquet with paws and claws, dousing the bed in rose petals, and was now using my teeth to make a pathway out of rose petals from the doorway to the bed.
They’re gonna come home, they’re gonna come home, they’re gonna come home!
Not content to leave it at that, I trotted out to the living room, jumping up at the light switch over and over again until I finally got it to dim.
Mood lighting.
Chapter Forty
Same night . . .
People of all ages—well, upward of legal drinking age—were lining the velvet rope outside the busy venue, waiting to be let in by the bouncer guarding the door. In a city of millions and millions, there were enough people interested in dancing to golden oldies to make the place popular. Plus, people tend to be a little monkey see, monkey do about this sort of thing. They see other human beings forming a line, even if it’s just one or two other humans, and they think it must be something worth queueing up for and they fall into line as well. It worked in communist Russia. It works in theme parks. How else to explain the appeal of hair-raising rides that make humans want to hurl?
But on this night, there was no waiting for The Man and The Woman. The bouncer must’ve sensed something special about them, because he waved them right in.
Inside, the place was youthful and upbeat, but with an older charm. The Woman immediately excused herself, and The Man sat on a tall stool at a two-top, looking around at all the dancing people having fun. He felt uncomfortable and out of place, like the collar on his shirt was tightening around his neck even though the top button had never been done up in the first place. But he instantly brightened when he saw The Woman returning to him.
The Woman sat down at the table, smiling, as the music shifted from an upbeat bop to a slow song.
The Man relaxed.
“Can I have this dance?” The Woman asked.
“It would be my honor,” The Man said.
The Woman took his hand, leading him out onto the dance floor.
The Man took her in his arms, going awkward again for a bit as he fumblingly attempted to assume the lead position. She seemed a bit tense with it too.
“Are you, are y
ou good with this?” The Man asked.
He so desperately wanted to get it right. He so desperately didn’t want to offend.
“I’m good with this,” The Woman said.
She looked up at him, clearly content then. And he allowed a calming, satisfied grin to escape.
As they danced, they moved closer and closer, until a nun couldn’t have wedged a ruler between them if she’d tried. He no longer noticed the people all around them, dancing and on the sidelines. Eventually, he became happy simply to have her in his arms again. Eventually, she let go of whatever tension she’d still been feeling too, resting her head on his shoulder.
The two fit together. Everything had clicked back into place.
They swayed as one.
Then she lifted her head, and their eyes met and locked, their heads moving with exquisitely excruciating slowness toward each other until their mouths were just an exhale apart, and then, finally . . .
They kissed.
THEY. KISSED.
!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
It was perfect.
Chapter Forty-One
Later . . .
I’d been arranging and rearranging the rose petals into various designs with my snout. What can I say? I’m a bit of a perfectionist. Plus, it’s hard waiting for exciting things you’ve longed to have happen to actually happen! If I hadn’t found something to do with my angsty paws, I’d have gone mad with the waiting—just mad, I tell you.
I nudged the last rose petal into place and looked over my handiwork, satisfied that I’d finally gotten the design right. The roses on the bed now formed a massive red heart. It was beautiful, if a little cheesy, and I let my tongue loll in contentment.
Suddenly, I heard a key in the lock. Ecstatic, I practically tripped over my own body as I bounded over to the front door.
I sat there panting in eagerness, waiting for the front door to open.
They’re here! They’re finally here . . . together!
The door clicked open, and my panting slowed, my face falling.
There stood The Man in the doorway, crestfallen and alone.
Joint Custody Page 18
