No matter how much I might’ve hated to disobey her—and I did, border collies being pretty much the most obedient breed in the world—I refused to budge.
I bored my eyes into hers.
She groaned.
“Gatz, it’s nearly ten. He’s going to be back from his morning jog any minute now. Let’s go.”
I cemented my butt to the concrete. I may weigh only twenty-two pounds, but I can be a deadweight whenever I want to.
“Gatz, what are you doing?” she pleaded with me.
Still not budging.
She stared at me, heartbroken.
Then came the sound of footsteps approaching, and reluctantly, she turned her head toward those footsteps.
It was New Man, sweaty and catching his breath. I had to admit that even post-workout, he was gorgeous.
If she looked heartbroken to see him, he looked equally heartbroken to see her.
“Hi,” he said.
“Hi,” she said.
Well, at least it was a start.
But a start wasn’t good enough!
I pulled away from The Woman, her grip on the leash loosening due to her distracted state, and bounded toward New Man.
He flinched, understandably scared—given his past experience with that stupid English mastiff and the fact I was bounding at him—but I merely jumped up and down at his feet, joyfully, giving him loving licks with each joyful jump.
It was clear that New Man could hardly believe it and that The Woman could hardly believe it either.
I wagged my tail, panting happily, grinning up at New Man, rubbing my head against his leg to let him know I finally meant him well.
The initial shock subsiding, New Man began to laugh, in awe, while The Woman looked on in wonder.
New Man leaned down, cautiously, holding a tentative hand above my head, not quite making contact with me.
“Is it OK if I—” he started to say.
In answer, I moved my head upward to meet New Man’s hand, and New Man began to rub me behind my ears, tentatively at first but then with growing confidence.
“But . . . he hated me,” New Man said. “What changed?”
“I don’t know,” The Woman said, as stunned as he was. “He brought me here.”
New Man couldn’t contain himself. He looked overcome with a happiness he could barely let himself feel as he smiled at me.
“Do you . . . want us to be together, Gatz?” The Woman asked.
I became more eager, licking New Man more and more. Then I lay on my back just as I had done with The Woman so many times before, offering up my belly for a rub—vulnerable, but ready for love.
“I think he does!” New Man said.
Now, New Man was really getting into it, rubbing me all over.
“Who’s a good dog?” he said. “Who’s a good dog?”
I pulled back, slightly grossed out. Sorry, but that question can be annoying.
We’ll have to work on that.
New Man, embarrassed, nodded back.
Then the two of them looked at each other: affirmation at what was happening. Real affection. Love.
New Man stood upright, looked to The Woman. They were both ecstatic as they rapidly closed the space between them, holding on to each other and kissing.
I watched, touched and happy for them.
They pulled apart, laughing, nearly crying, so happy to be back together.
I got it.
I was nearly crying myself.
And that . . . that was True Love.
The two couldn’t take their eyes off of each other, but they did when I bounded over, looping myself through their legs.
New Man and The Woman laughed, leaning down to pet me together.
Now all I had to do was find True Love for The Man.
Chapter Fifty
One month later . . .
It was another sunny day in the city. Beautiful! Considering it was August, it was as close to perfection as we were ever going to get.
The 92nd Street Y was filled to capacity, everyone in the space eager. On the stage, there were two comfortable chairs, empty and slightly angled toward each other, with a small table for water bottles and whatnot between them and a speaker’s podium to one side.
I was to the right of the stage, looping myself around the legs of New Man and The Woman, who was there because one of her authors was featured in the event, which was called “Tell Us About Your Process.”
I looked up at The Woman and New Man in awe. They were so in love.
“Your brother called today,” New Man said.
I briefly wondered if he meant Tall or Short. But then I figured it had to be Tall. Tall was the only one who’d call New Man out of the blue like that. Well, Short might call if it was about food.
“Yes?” The Woman said. “What did he say?”
“He said he wanted your help looking for his finger?” New Man said, perplexed.
“Oh my god.”
“Do you know what that could be about?”
“Ignore that,” The Woman said, tucking her hair behind one ear. When she moved her hand, I could see the big honking diamond sparkle on her ring finger. Big as it was, however, it managed to not be tacky or gaudy. New Man is like that: rich but still with great taste and a lot of class.
I glanced over at the other side of the stage, where The Man stood with his editor, waiting to go on. I was sure The Man would be a bundle of nerves right around now, and I trotted over to the left to see if I could lend a helping paw. What can I say? Most people have heard of support dogs, but I’m a supportive dog.
“Do you think anyone would notice if I took off now?” The Man asked.
The Editor glared, looking around the room. “Oh, not at all,” he said with an eye roll, “you’d slip right out.”
“I feel like a sausage.” He tugged at his collar as if it was growing tight, but of course it wasn’t. He was in his usual uniform of flannel shirt opened over white T-shirt and jeans plus backward Mets ball cap. “I’m sausaged in here.”
“Relax,” The Editor said. “It’s going to be fine. You’re not even here to talk up a specific book. All they want to hear about is your writing process.”
“OK.” Deep breath. “OK.”
“You’ve got this,” The Editor said.
As he said this supportive thing, I saw another man approach them, immediately taking hold of The Editor’s hand. I realized this must be The Editor’s husband, whom he’d previously referred to as “the love of my life,” and I saw that this was true.
Once upon a time, and for a very long time, I’d detested The Editor. But I’d softened when I heard him tell The Man that he was “the best writer I know.”
It occurred to me then that, just like I’d been wrong about New Man from the start, perhaps I’d been wrong about The Editor from the start too. Maybe he’d never been the bad guy I thought him to be. Maybe he just wanted to help The Man be the best writer he could be, editing him in the best way he knew how. So, his style might have been different than that of The Woman, but his editorial heart was in the right place.
But I still wasn’t going to let him rank on us for only keeping beer in the fridge.
I approached another dog to sniff butt back over on The Woman’s side of the stage, and as I did so, I saw a woman approach her. Based on her appearance and the description I’d heard of her once, I immediately knew who she was: The Woman’s Author, the one she’d had with her when she did the panel at the London Book Fair. Hispanic female, flannel shirt open over a tank top and jeans, pigtailed hair beneath baseball cap, which she wore backward.
The Woman’s Author looked as nervous as The Man, so it didn’t surprise me to see The Woman embrace her warmly.
“Are you nervous?” The Woman asked.
Obvious question,
perhaps. But you can’t begin to solve a problem until you acknowledge it.
“Do you see how many people there are here?” The Woman’s Author asked. “Oh my god, this is just awful.”
“It’s going to be fine,” The Woman said reassuringly. “Breathe.”
“What if they can hear me when I’m breathing up there?”
“No one’s going to—”
“I bet they can smell my fear.”
“You’re going to be great. Hey.” She placed her hands on her author’s arms, looked her steadily in the eye. “You’re going to be great. I promise.”
The Woman’s Author nodded along, visibly trying to shake off her nerves.
They hugged again, and as they hugged, I craned my neck to see if I could catch a gander at the logo on The Woman’s Author’s ball cap, if there was one. Huh. Just as I suspected, it was the Mets.
The Woman’s Author took a deep breath. Squinting to peer at the other side of the stage, I saw The Man take a deep breath at the same time.
Just then, New Man leaned down to whisper in my ear, “Wanna sit down, bud? I think they’re almost ready to start.”
I panted happily with my tongue out. In the past month, we’d grown very comfortable together.
New Man and The Woman took their seats, which were reserved and in the front row center, me lounging at their feet. As we sat there, New Man petted me, and it occurred to me for the first time: the guy now loved me, and not just to make her happy. He loved me for myself.
I watched The Woman’s Author and The Man walk across the stage toward each other from opposite sides, each not really taking in the other, so caught up were they in their individual awkward nervousness. They took their seats, trying to get settled, as stagehands moved around them setting up mics.
Side by side, the visual was striking.
The Woman’s Author and The Man, both dressed in their flannels, both with their ball caps on backward. Mets ball caps.
They stared forward, still not seeing each other.
She rested her left ankle on her right knee. He rested his left ankle on his right knee.
She bounced her right knee. He bounced his right knee.
The gears turned in my head.
Oh my god.
“Oh my god!!!”
Wait. Had I said that out loud?
No, I saw with some measure of relief, because if I could suddenly talk too, that might be too much even for me. The speaker had been The Redhead, who was now rushing toward The Woman. The Redhead was accompanied by their other two work friends.
“Hi!” The Woman said, hugging them all at once. “I’m so glad you could make it!”
“For a discussion on the author’s gaze on projection and intersectional rights in the book industry?” The Blonde asked. Not waiting for an answer, which was just as well since she’d have been disappointed to learn that was not the topic, she added, “Wouldn’t miss it!”
“I had to cancel my goat’s acupuncture appointment for this,” The Brunette said. “I just hope it’s worth it.”
Sure, the work friends were interesting if odd, but I couldn’t take my eyes off The Woman’s Author and The Man up on the stage.
I mean, look at them.
The Woman’s Author adjusted her chair nervously. The Man adjusted his chair nervously.
She adjusted her mic. He adjusted his mic.
She leaned on her left palm. He leaned on his left palm.
It was like watching the old Harpo Marx / Lucille Ball routine.
She’s antisocial, she doesn’t care about fashion, she’s perfect! Does anyone else see what I’m seeing?
Simultaneously, The Woman’s Author and The Man took big, laborious breaths and let them out.
They’re perfect for each other!
The Woman took her seat beside us and looked up at the stage, content. The Man met her gaze, and they gave each other a smile, completely devoid of sadness, and a nod. They were OK together now.
I beat my tail, happy to see how OK they were.
The Woman looked at New Man, and it was obvious to me how in love they both were with each other. It wasn’t really the place for PDA, but if it were, I’d bet he’d wrap his arms around her and give her a big kiss. And me, I’d be happy for them. I was happy for them.
On the stage, The Woman’s Author and The Man cleared their throats in unison. At the sounds, they looked over at each other for the first time, wonder and then recognition dawning in their eyes: kindred spirits. Despite the nerves they’d both been visibly feeling just a second ago, now they were all big smiles. At each other.
If I had to give a label to what I was witnessing—and who among us is above the desire to label?—I’d have to say it was love at first sight, pure and simple.
Maybe we should all just start calling her New Woman now?
And if they needed any nudges in the right direction? I’d make sure they got there. Having retired from my days as a wingdog, I was now a matchmaker extraordinaire. And forget about meaningless. From this day forward, I was going to be all about the meaningful.
“Can I have everyone’s attention?” a man called from behind the podium.
The crowd began to settle, and even though it wasn’t a musical event, taking in the faces of The Woman, New Man, The Man, and New Woman—all looking so happy—a song instantly began playing in my mind:
You know the song, and if you don’t, Google and YouTube are your friends.
“Just the Way You Are,” by Bruno Mars, of course.
There’s a Bruno Mars song for everything.
Sometimes, you don’t get the happily ever after you hoped for and worked for, or even thought you’d get, but that’s OK. Just so long as everyone winds up happy.
It’s all about the happy ending.
Acknowledgments
Going through the writing and publishing process at any time comes with its challenges, but the events of 2020 really called on next-level efforts, so we would both like to thank:
Pamela Harty, for her great friendship and for always believing in us, and everyone else at The Knight Agency;
Cindy Hwang, for wanting our book; Angela Kim, for holding our hands at all the stages; Marianne Aguiar, for superior copyediting; Sarah Oberrender, for her gorgeous cover design; Jennifer Myers, for a production schedule that didn’t miss a beat; Fareeda Bullert, for marketing; the sales team and everyone else at Penguin Random House who has worked so hard, going above and beyond to bring our book to you; booksellers, librarians, reviewers, and readers everywhere.
Lauren would like to thank: Lauren Catherine, Bob Gulian, Andrea Schicke Hirsch, Greg Logsted, Rob Mayette, and Krissi Petersen Schoonover, all of whom have contributed their talent and support to the Crow’s Nest Writers Group over the years; my extended family and friends; my husband, Greg, for life, love, and Jackie; Jackie, for everything.
Jackie would like to thank: my parents, for a love and support that could move mountains and for getting me where I am today. To Ben, Ariel, Natura, Emma, Hana, Charlotte, Laura, Elise, who have made my college experience what it is, and left an impression on my life that is endless. To Erin Clarke for her photography and friendship. And finally, to Planes—may you fly high and not crash too many times on your way.
Finally, from both of us again: We would like to thank you, whoever you are, holding this book right now.
Read on for a special glimpse at the sequel to
Joint Custody
Prologue
A famous Russian writer once said that “Happy families are all alike; every unhappy family is unhappy in its own way.” Well, I don’t know what the Russian word is for “bollocks,” but since The Woman is English, I’m well versed in what the English word is and it’s: bollocks.
Just like the Jane Austen line—“It is a truth universally ackno
wledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife”—is not universal at all, and is only true of the specific world Austen created, the same is true of Leo Tolstoy’s diss on happy families. It is true in his world. But in the world, the one I inhabit, happy families are not all alike. Indeed, just like unhappy families, they are infinite in their variety.
I happen to know this for a fact because I happen to come from a happy family; two, actually—the one I inhabit with The Man (who, OK, isn’t always a bundle of joy and occasionally suffers from depression, but we are happy together) and the one I inhabit with The Woman and New Man.
But just because it’s a happy world we’ve made for ourselves, it doesn’t mean we’re a bunch of giddily mindless twits. It doesn’t mean we don’t have our share of troubles, conflicts, and heartaches.
Yeah, about those . . .
But maybe I should back up for a minute. If this is the first time for a reader encountering me, that reader would be justified in asking: Who’s telling this story? Who’s quoting Tolstoy and Austen at the reader right off the bat?
The answer: me. Gatz. A dog. Black and white. Border collie. If I were a cat, I would be a fat cat, but since I’m not, my twenty-two pounds makes me a lean, mean fighting machine. Ah, I’m just funnin’ ya. I’m not a fighter! I’m a lover!
Now here’s where some might begin to object: The dog is telling the story? To which I would point out that all good narratives require the willing suspension of disbelief. So I would heartily encourage all who enter here to just be willing and suspend.
Having introduced myself, I’m going to further take this opportunity to bring everyone up to speed.
Once upon a time, I was rescued from a shelter by The Man, a thirtysomething schlub with an apartment in Brooklyn and a career as a literary novelist. On the day he rescued me, while walking home, we encountered The Woman: British, Black, and beautiful, making her a trifecta in the B department. She was an editor in the city. As far as I was concerned, it was love for all of us at first sight, and indeed love and cohabitation soon followed. That state of bliss lasted for a while, but over time their differences got the best of them—he’s an introvert, she’s an extrovert, they were “oil-and-watering” each other—and she moved out.
Joint Custody Page 20
