Life on the Leash

by Victoria Schade

  They had met at The Tombs in Georgetown four years ago while Cora was waiting for Aaron to finish a round of darts. Maggie was sitting at the bar trying to get the bartender’s attention while ignoring an unsteady baseball-capped frat guy pushing up to her. Cora happened to be standing behind the guy and eavesdropped as he got to work.

  “You’re cute,” he slurred to Maggie. “But you’d be so much cuter if you didn’t have that thing on your arm.” He ran his finger down her intricate elbow-to-shoulder mermaid tattoo.

  Maggie pouted prettily. “You don’t like Esther? I got her after I finished working as a mermaid in the Weeki Wachee show in Florida. She’s very special to me.”

  The guy ignored Maggie’s obvious opening to talk about mermaids and opted to insult her again. “Florida, huh? Most Florida people are white trash, but you’re not so bad.” He eyed Maggie from head to toe.

  Cora picked up on what he was doing right away—cutting Maggie down with backhanded compliments to weaken her confidence and make her more open to his advances.

  Maggie giggled. “Thank you!” She seemed oblivious, but her manner verged on sitcom southern belle, all flirty shoulders and fluttery hands. It was too much, too over-the-top. Couldn’t the guy see that she was playing him?

  “So what brings you to Georgetown? You here to try to score a rich guy?”

  “Maybe . . .” She lowered her head and looked up at him through her lashes. This woman was candy-coated poison. “Is that what you are?”

  Cora held her breath as the guy laughed and leaned in closer. This is going to be good.

  “Or are you a prick who thinks negging is cool?” Maggie’s demeanor changed from boozy flirt to strident in an instant. “Listen, fucker, I graduated from Georgetown and I just got accepted to Yale to get my MFA, so why don’t you move on with your pickup artist bullshit, okay? You are a douche!” She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted into the crowd. “Hey, ladies, be careful, this guy is a pickup artist loser!”

  Maggie was attracting attention, the guy was grabbing at her menacingly, and Cora wasn’t sure what was about to happen, so she stepped forward.

  “There you are!” she playacted. “Come on, let’s go!” She took Maggie’s hand and threaded her through the crowded bar.

  When they reached an open area near the men’s bathroom Cora turned to Maggie. “I heard everything he said and you were awesome! But I didn’t want it to get out of hand—he looked like he wanted to punch you.”

  “Seriously, right?” She shook her head. “Anyway, thanks for saving me.”

  Cora cocked her head. “I hate to pry . . . I heard pretty much everything you said . . . was any of that true?”

  Maggie laughed. “What, I don’t look like a Hoya to you? All of it is true, right down to the Weeki Wachee mermaid gig. I’m a theater major and I can play a pretty convincing idiot when I have to.”

  They spent the rest of the evening huddled together trading stories and laughing until their stomachs hurt. Skipping past the awkward new-friendship courtship dance, they progressed immediately to BFFs, becoming roommates six months later.

  “It’s on in ten minutes,” Maggie said, pulling Cora from her reverie.

  “What is?”

  “Look at you, ignoring the obvious. Aaron’s show, America’s Hottest Landscaper.”

  Cora had resisted researching the show for a week, staying true to her total Aaron blackout. When she finally gave in—at a year and a half post-breakup she felt she could handle it—she was pleased that she could find only the show’s description and cast bios. It seemed that America’s Hottest Landscaper would debut to little fanfare, which meant that she wouldn’t have to watch the rest of the world fall in love with her ex. The twelve contestants fit all the reality show stereotypes: the underdog, the hot girl, the grizzled veteran, the sweet mom, the party boy, the spoiled brat, the fish out of water, the out and proud guy, and on and on until Aaron’s category.

  The dreamboat.

  Aaron had his shirt off in his bio photo. The photographer had caught him mid-dig with a shovel so his arm muscles popped from the exertion. His dark hair was spiked up with sweat. His tanned face was turned toward the camera, and he grinned directly at it, as if he saw his best friend behind the lens. He looked friendly, happy, and absolutely heart-stoppingly beautiful. Bastard.

  Cora joined Maggie and Fritz on the couch in their tiny family room. Her friend reached for her hand.

  “You okay with this?”

  Cora sighed. “Do I have a choice? I feel like I’m going to vomit. But better to see it than wonder about it, I guess.”

  The show unfolded in typical reality show fashion, with an upbeat adult contemporary theme song, quick cuts of the cast, and the introduction of the female host. Cora felt clammy the moment she saw Aaron. She watched him and exhaled slowly, like someone trying to calm down after a scare. Seeing her ex-fiancé in pictures was one thing, but seeing him in action, smiling and laughing and captivating everyone around him, made her head hurt. And her heart.

  “This is what theater has become.” Maggie sighed. “We watch each other do lawn work and go on dates and buy houses and flip tables on television. It’s gross. I’m so glad I opted out.”

  Cora didn’t reply. Maggie’s “opting out” of her acting career was more a matter of never truly pursuing it. She was obscenely talented but lacked drive. She’d fallen into a part-time job at Saks that turned full-time and decided to stick with it, always making vague threats to chuck it all and move to New York or Hollywood. In the meantime she turned the sales floor into her stage, performing her butt off for the dowagers and dot-com wives to bring in better commissions.

  “It’s insane, but he wanted this so badly. I can’t believe he actually made it happen,” Cora said.

  Maggie snorted. “A reality show? This was Aaron’s big dream? So much for finishing his degree.”

  “He didn’t say he wanted to be on a reality show, but he said he wanted to be famous. That was his end game—being famous. Didn’t matter how. He loves to have people watching him. TV makes perfect sense.” Cora waited a beat. “Wouldn’t it be weird if I got on TV, too?”

  Maggie threw her a perplexed look.

  “You know my clients Wade and Rachel with the twins and the golden puppy? He e-mailed me about this new dog training show that’s being cast and he thinks I should audition.”

  “Oh my God, you totally should!” Maggie screamed, waking Fritz from his snoring slumber. “Wouldn’t it be amazing if you could take out the doggy dickhole? You’d be perfect!”

  “You really think so? There’s a tiny part of me that wants to try, but you know I don’t have that Aaron gene. The concept of being on TV freaks me out. But somebody needs to show people you can train dogs without hurting them.”

  “Yeah, and that somebody might be you. I think you’d be awesome, C. I can totally help you find your TV gene.”

  “We’ll see,” Cora answered cryptically, still warming up to the idea.

  America’s Hottest Landscaper was a new low in the world of reality programming, in Cora’s honest opinion. The show’s initial challenge involved a mulch installation, and the resulting close-ups of the contestants sweating, grunting, and grimacing coupled with the gritty soundtrack made it look like soft-core porn. The episode mainly revolved around Aaron’s abs and Carly the hot girl’s cleavage and it was clear that the editors wanted viewers to pick up on the simmering sexual tension between the duo. Carly was platinum blond, Aaron’s favorite. He loved to tell Cora that she was an exception, since her hair color was three shades darker than what he normally went for.

  Aaron won the challenge, and the attractive host ascended the steaming pile of mulch to congratulate him and ask him about his strategy. Cora was numb to the effects of seeing him on screen by the end of the program, more in awe of the train wreck of a show he was on.

  “Tell us how you did it, Aaron,” the host bubbled. “How did you move this mountain of mulch in j
ust three and a half minutes?”

  Aaron paused to wipe the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand like a hardworking everyman. “Well, Brittany, I just gave it my all. I didn’t expect to have such a fierce competitor in Andy,” he said gesturing to the openly gay contestant. He turned back to the camera and lisped, “He’s a skinny little f***—I didn’t think he had any heavy lifting in him. Well, except for . . . you know . . .” He smiled his golden boy smile and elbowed Brittany. The camera cut to Andy, who stood a few feet away with an unguarded look of shock on his face. The word was bleeped, but there was no doubt about what he’d said.

  Maggie and Cora turned to each other, agog.

  “Holy shit, your ex-fiancé just made a gay slur on national television. He is going down the hard way.”

  SEVEN

  * * *

  Fran Channing asked Cora to hold their third lesson at her Old Town Alexandria office, as Sydney often accompanied Fran to work despite his less than stellar manners. Cora was excited that she’d finally be able to match a career with the woman she so admired.

  Cora’s phone pinged nonstop during the drive. Sixteen new texts, all about Aaron’s embarrassing TV debut. “He looked gud but cnt belve wht he said!!!” and “R u ok? Did it make u sad to c him??” and “Better off w/out him!” Even her technophobe mother weighed in with a typically verbose text. “Hi honey. I watched the show and I can’t believe what Aaron said. I’m worried about you. Are you ok? Love, Mom.” The support helped. Watching his flirting from a distance brought back some of the old hurts she’d buried, even if the result was the firm conclusion that he was an asshole.

  She found Fran’s office on a quiet side street lined with cherry trees about to burst into bloom. The brick building was a small, repurposed factory with the ghost of the former tenant’s decades-old logo still visible on the side. When Cora saw the tall red letters on the front of the building, Fran’s immaculately styled home made sense: The International Association of Boutique Lodging.

  Cora entered the airy foyer and was met by four unmarked doors. She tried the first one—locked. The second one opened, and she found herself peering into a room filled with cubicles. No one looked up as she entered, and no one came forward to help her, so she backed out quietly. Flustered and fearing she was late, she speed walked to the third door and barged in right as a blur of a human was coming out.

  “Sorry, sorry,” the blur cried as he ran by her. “Gotta catch the UPS guy!”

  Cora saw a secretary sitting at a desk just beyond the door and hoped that she was finally in the right place. Then, she heard the distant jangling of dog tags and knew that she was. Sydney rounded the corner like he was chasing a breakaway sheep and came to an immediate sit in front of her the moment he saw Cora’s crossed arms. The dog was equal parts heart and brain, and she adored working with him.

  “Would you look at that? Look at my good boy!” Fran’s voice echoed down the hallway as she trotted out to meet Cora, her Asian-inspired silk duster trailing behind her. Fran turned to the secretary. “Lydia, do you see that? I told you he’s a genius! Now if we could only do something about his leash walking . . .”

  Cora and Sydney followed Fran into her expansive office, which had the same vibe as her home: clean lines, stark styling, and nothing out of place. Cora took a seat next to Sydney on the ground and leaned against the wall, hoping that the dirty paw prints on her shirt from her last jumpy client wouldn’t transfer onto the pearl-colored wall.

  “Darling, I’m sorry I’m so frazzled today! There’s been drama with one of our properties. Have you seen the blogs? We’ve been Tweeting up a storm about it.”

  “I’ve been with clients all morning—what did I miss?”

  “There’s this horrid new reality competition, and honestly, what reality show isn’t horrid, and one of the contestants called another contestant an unforgivable slur—don’t make me repeat it, darling—and made some insinuation about gay sex. Who does that?” Fran rolled her eyes dramatically. “Anyway, it turns out that the show was shooting at the Hamish Hotel, and the owner, Roland Gibson, got wind of what the idiot said. Well, Roland is a force of nature, so he put a stop to the production right in the middle of it. Stormed the set and threw them out! Heroic of him, if you ask me. From what I hear, it was a miracle they could cut the premiere from the footage they got.”

  Cora knew what was coming the moment Fran said the word reality. She had a feeling that Aaron’s comments would raise some eyebrows but she never imagined that he would be responsible for a Tweet storm about equality and gay rights.

  Cora looked down at Sydney, who had rolled onto his back and was swatting her hand to encourage more belly rubs. “I have to tell you something. I don’t want to but I can’t not tell you now that you brought it up.” Cora exhaled. “This is really . . . I don’t know what to call it. Embarrassing? Horrifying?”

  Fran pulled her glasses farther down her nose and peered at Cora.

  “I know that guy from the reality show, Aaron. I was actually, um . . . I was engaged to him about eighteen months ago.”

  Fran stared at Cora for a few seconds, openmouthed. It was scary to see her shocked into silence.

  “Oh my dear girl. Oh no. Really?”

  Cora nodded her head sheepishly, as if his sin was suddenly hers.

  “I don’t know what to say, darling. This must be very uncomfortable for you on several levels.”

  “Honestly, I haven’t given it a lot of thought. It was bizarre seeing him on TV, and what he said was awful, but I just sort of . . . put it out of my head. That’s how I deal with stuff. I can’t believe that he’s even on TV—I’m just coming to terms with that, and now based on what you’re telling me, it sounds like he’s going to be everywhere. I don’t know how to process it. Plus, I’m mortified that I was with someone who would say something so awful.”

  “Want my advice? Just keep it to yourself then. You don’t need to insert yourself into his public shaming. He’s a mistake from your past, and now he’s dealing with his own mistake. You have no part in this—it’s obviously not your fault, and he is not your responsibility. Okay? So let’s move on, darling . . .”

  Cora was grateful to end the conversation quickly. “Thank you, Fran. It seems like you have a lot to take care of today, so why don’t we leash up and get outside?”

  Fran turned to dig through her oversize bag for the leash, and Cora leaned in closer to Sydney, pushing his unruly bangs out of his eyes.

  “Mon petit monster,” she whispered to him so that Fran couldn’t hear her. “Are you going to be a good boy today?” Sydney tilted his head at her, as if considering the question. “Are you ready to learn some stuff?” Cora smiled at him, regarding the dog like a mischievous kindergartener, then cupped his head in her hands and planted a kiss on his forehead. She noticed a figure out of the corner of her eye and turned to find the lanky UPS-chaser watching her with a half-smile on his face. Cora went scarlet, sheepish that her pep talk with Sydney had a witness.

  Fran’s voice rang out. “Well, hello, Eli! Cora Bellamy, please meet Eli Crawford. Cora is helping me train my naughty boy, and Eli helps me train my naughty computer.”

  “Also known as an IT manager. Sorry to interrupt your conversation with Sydney. It looked important.” Eli nodded at the dog and walked toward Cora. Sydney jumped up and ran to greet him, blocking Eli’s path so that he had to acknowledge the dog before he got to Cora. Eli gave in to Sydney’s demands, and didn’t seem to care when the dog playfully nipped at his pant legs as he walked toward Cora.

  “Just going over some last-minute tips before we get started.” She struggled to stand, and Eli offered his hand in greeting as well as to help her up. Cora was impressed that he could focus on her completely, smiling reassuringly, while preventing Sydney from jumping on him.

  “What can I do for you, Eli?” Fran asked.

  “I just wanted to chat with you about the upcoming phone migration . . . do you have time later?”


  Cora watched them as they discussed their schedules in a friendly shorthand. Eli was a head taller than Fran, but he leaned against the edge of Fran’s desk so that he didn’t tower over her as they negotiated. Sydney threaded between them as they talked, soliciting pats from Eli as he scrolled through his calendar. He made an indecipherable inside joke as they finalized their meeting time, and Fran doubled over with laughter.

  Eli turned to leave and Sydney escorted him to the door. He leaned down and whispered something in the dog’s ear.

  “I talk to dogs, too.” He winked at Cora and walked out of the room.

  EIGHT

  * * *

  Cora’s dog trainer friends were nearing the bottom of their first round of drinks by the time she arrived at their monthly gathering. Even though they called themselves The Boozehounds, they rarely made it to a third drink. Winnifred, the older Earth Mother dog trainer with butt-length white hair, was telling an animated story when Cora walked in, her gauzy sleeves dragging across the table every time she gestured. Vanessa, a stunning African American newbie trainer who was apprenticing with Winnie, was watching her teacher with her typical rapt expression, as if trying to absorb every bit of her wisdom. It was impossible to look at the varied trio of women and guess what drew them together, unless you looked close enough to see the dog hair on their clothes.

  “Let’s start with the gossip. Anyone have any juicy stuff going on? Cora, you want to talk about the Aaron stuff?” Winnie asked, assuming her role as the unofficial ringleader of the group.