by Sarah Adams
I pop that dream bubble and move on.
Later that night, after Charlie and I are back in our own little corner of the world, we spend our time curled up on my tiny loveseat, watching Friends reruns while I eat sherbet ice cream out of a mug. I think Charlie has a crush on Rachel, because any time she comes on the screen, his ears perk up. Your ears never perk up for me like that anymore, buddy.
And then I realize that I’m jealous of the attention my dog is paying a fictional TV character, and I decide I really need to get a life. As if my mama could somehow sense that I am at an all-time low and could possibly be swayed into becoming her mini-me like she’s always dreamed, my phone pings.
MOM: Tyler told your daddy that he asked you out again for this weekend and you turned him down. When are you going to start taking your life seriously and claim the future you’re destined for?
EVIE: What a little tattletale.
Remember the name of my daddy’s law firm: Jones and Murray Law? Well, Tyler owns the Murray part of that title. He is two years older than me and the son of my daddy’s best friend (who used to own the company before he had a heart attack two months ago and handed the company down to Tyler.) The law firm has been in the hands of our families for the past three generations. This match between Tyler and me has been in the making since our great-grandfathers shook hands on opening day of the firm.
Only families as delusional as Tyler’s and mine would expect their children to marry in order to ensure that a business and all of its money stays in the proper hands. I think the plan is for me and Tyler to marry and for me to immediately birth a son who they will both leave the entirety of the company to since my daddy was never given a son. Because let’s face it, folks, this is the wealthy South, where a woman’s only job is to look pretty, birth babies to take over her husband’s empire, and help him close business deals by fluttering her lashes and making the best old-fashioned for his colleagues.
The sad part is, I almost agreed to this life that I never fit in, because I felt like I didn’t have any other options. I was scared to live alone with epilepsy, and since I didn’t have any men busting down my door to marry me, my only option was to powder my nose, hike up my pantyhose, and agree to my parents’ plan for my future.
That is, until I met Joanna and she gave me Charlie. Suddenly, a bright new future rolled out in front of me. One all sparkly and new, where I could live independently and work for my own living doing something I actually enjoyed. And most importantly, one where I didn’t have to marry Tyler Murray and his lying playboy butt that shouldn’t be trusted farther than you could throw it.
I left home three years ago and moved into my Thumbelina apartment because it was all I could afford. My parents immediately cut me off, in hopes that I’d starve and come running back to them wearing the patent-leather heels Mama has been polishing for me since I was in her womb.
I would rather eat dirt.
To make sure I didn’t have to do either of those things, I took odd jobs babysitting at night; and during the day, I worked side by side with Jo, molding adorable little puppies into dogs that save lives. It felt monumental the day she told me I could move from volunteer into a paid employee position in the company.
MAMA: Evelyn Grace, why do you insist on acting so childish? You are twenty-five years old. It’s time you started acting your age and thinking about your future.
I’m twenty-six, but whatever.
EVIE: I happen to like Froot Loops far better than the high-fiber cereals, so I think I’ll just keep on the way I’m going. Thanks, though. Say hi to Tattletale Tyler for me.
I know she won’t like that. Mama hates when I make jokes, especially during a conversation that she thinks should be life-changing for me.
Several minutes go by, and I turn off the TV and brush my teeth before climbing into my full-sized bed. My phone pings again. I groan and roll over to grab it off of my bedside table, pulling Charlie in a little closer to give me the moral support I need before reading whatever biting thing my mama has texted me.
But when I unlock the screen, I’m confused to see a number I don’t recognize.
Unknown Number: Hi, Miss Jones. This is Jacob Broaden. I have no doubt that I am the last person in the world you want to be hearing from right now, but I was hoping we could talk.
I squeal and drop my phone like it’s suddenly morphed into a hot coal. Jacob Broaden is texting me?? Do I want him to be texting me?
Yes. No. Yes. No.
See…I told you I’d been teetering all night. What could he possibly want to talk about? After our encounter this morning, I doubt he’s wanting to shoot the breeze.
EVIE: Why? Are you in the market for a used car?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I see what you did there. I deserve it. That’s actually why I was hoping to talk. What do you say? Will you meet me at Hudson Roasters tomorrow at 9AM and help me pull my head out of my butt?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Was that gross?
EVIE: Very.
UNKNOWN NUMBER: I regretted it instantly. Will you meet me?
I’m biting my lip and smiling down at my phone like a fool. Charlie looks at me and rolls his eyes at me again.
One minute ago, I hated Jacob Broaden and was contemplating adding a pin to a very special spot on his voodoo doll. Now, I’m daydreaming of that corner in the coffee shop. Which is exactly why I should decline his offer and suggest he meet with Joanna instead of me if he is considering going with our company for a service dog.
It makes sense. I mean, my body is breaking out in a flush just thinking of his steely blue eyes. But then again, I have first-hand experience with the same disability as his daughter. Who better to advise him than little ol’ me?
For no reason other than that I’m a saint and only have the child’s heart in mind, I pick up my phone and text him back.
EVIE: Fine. Try not to bite my head off this time, all right?
UNKNOWN NUMBER: Where would the fun be in promising that?
Chapter Five
JAKE
Walking into Hudson Roasters, I have a distinct feeling that I’m walking right to my death. I don’t know exactly why I feel this way. It’s not rational. It’s not as if I suspect that Miss Jones is going to pull out a knife and stab me. But it’s more that I’ve been putting up walls around myself since the day Natalie left—big, ugly forcefields of solitude that keep beautiful women far away—and I’m a little afraid that the woman I spent most of the night dreaming about might have a really tall ladder.
I woke up in a cold sweat the moment her pink lips collided with mine. It was ridiculous, and I blame it on my late-night texting with her. I didn’t mean to flirt. I had only intended to apologize and request a very professional meeting between the two of us to discuss the potential of purchasing one of her company’s dogs. All business. Very buttoned up.
But the moment I pictured her green woodland eyes, the flirtatious replies rolled off my fingers like it was a newfound superpower. I wanted to make her laugh. Why?
Because I’m stupid, that’s why.
But not today. Today, I plan on being the epitome of professional. I am a neurosurgeon walking into the operating room. I’ve scrubbed up, gloves are on, scalpel is in hand, and I’m ready to extract only the information I need.
I open the door to the coffee shop, and the smell of roasted coffee beans hits my senses. I’ve already had two cups of coffee today because I woke up at 4:30 AM and couldn’t go back to sleep after my dream about Ev—Miss Jones.
No one likes that guy who shows up to a coffee meeting and then says he already had his coffee that day, so I fall into line behind a man in a nicely tailored suit and wonder if I should have dressed up too. Maybe it would have aided my efforts of being professional with Evie—DANG IT—Miss Jones!
I’m looking down at my jeans and gray Henley tee when I feel a warm hand on my forearm. I turn around, and my eyes collide with a woodland forest. And just like that, I’m dead. She brought a freaking ladder.
It’s all over for me.
“Mr. Broaden, good morning.” Miss Jones is all business too. This is good. I’m definitely not wondering if her lips would feel as warm and soft as they did in my dream.
“Miss Jones, thanks for meeting me. Can I get you a coffee?” I notice that she has the same binder from yesterday tucked under her arm. The dog is here again too. I wonder if she’s brought him to give me a demonstration of his skills.
Something different, my eyes note without my approval, is that she’s wearing a pair of tight jeans with a rip on the thigh.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Moving on.
“I was actually going to ask you the same thing.” I frown at her, and so she adds, “I buy all of my potential recipients a coffee during these meetings.”
“But do all your potential recipients insult you at your first meetings?”
She smiles and tucks her blonde hair behind her ear. “Oh, yes. You’d be surprised the number of times I’ve been likened to a man.”
I cringe, thinking back to that comment. The reminder that I was horrible to this woman hits me in the chest. “Right. In that case, can I get you a muffin as well?” I aim a smile at her, and then when I realize it probably looks flirtatious, I wipe it away.
“Chocolate chip, please.”
Honestly, I’m a little struck that she agreed to the muffin so easily. Usually, women would never admit to wanting a pastry full of calories and sugar. I expected her to reject it or suggest a veggie omelet bite instead. I like this better, though.
Once we both have our coffees and pastries in hand, we make our way to a table by the window. We sit down, and I note that her dog, Charlie, lays down at her feet without her even having to ask him.
I honestly had no idea dogs could be that well behaved. He’s huge. If he wanted to, he could be knocking over tables and swiping all the muffins off of the barista’s counter, but instead, he’s nearly invisible. It’s impressive the way he tucked himself at her feet, half-in/half-out of the table. I wonder if Miss Jones was the one to train him.
She must see me staring at him, because she smiles and looks down at him. “This is Charlie. He’s four years old and a major bed hog.”
I’m choosing to pass right over the thought of Miss Jones in a bed.
“Is he a potential dog you would match with my daughter?”
“Only if the good Lord calls me home today.” Her comment is so shocking that my eyebrows shoot up. She laughs and picks at her muffin, taking one small bite—a chocolate-chip-only bite. “Charlie belongs to me, not the company. He’s been my personal seizure-assist dog for the last three years.” Did she say seizure-assist dog? Charlie is her service dog? She sees the shock on my face and continues, “That’s partly why I was determined to speak with you yesterday. I know exactly what it’s like to be in your daughter’s shoes.”
Oh, well, great. Now I’m sure I could win an award for being so rude to her yesterday. Any day now, I’ll be receiving a pin that I’ll be forced to wear on my shirt that says, I’m the biggest jerk in the world! Ask me how I accomplished it!
“I had no idea,” I say, still trying to absorb the information.
She laughs, and the sound trickles down my back. “Of course you didn’t. How could you have when you wouldn’t let me say more than three words at a time yesterday?” Her smile turns mischievous, and my stomach tightens.
I like that she’s not letting me off the hook easily. “Yeah. About that. I’m really sorry for the way I treated you. It really wasn’t like me, and you kind of caught me on a bad day.”
“Said every jerk since the beginning of time,” she says with a smirk as she pinches off another chocolate chip.
“You’re going to make me grovel, aren’t you?” I think I might be flirting again, but honestly, it’s not my fault. She’s giving me these eyes that say she’s taken off her suit jacket and rolled up her sleeves. Business is forgotten.
“Possibly. I’m hoping I can squeeze at least one more muffin out of it.”
I contemplate buying her the whole display case. There’s not one part of me that likes where my head is at. Miss Jones is capturing my attention like no woman has before. It doesn’t feel safe. This must be how a bug feels right before it gets zapped.
I clear my throat after a sip of coffee burns my mouth and nod toward her binder. “I feel like I should be honest with you. I’m not completely sold on the idea of a service dog for Sam yet.”
“Okay.” She draws out the word like she can sense there’s more and doesn’t know how to respond yet.
“I just don’t want you to get your hopes up on my purchasing a dog since there’s only a small chance that I will. Today, I’m just hoping to get more information.”
She’s smiling at me curiously. “Mr. Broaden, this is twice now that you’ve made a comment implying that I am desperate for you to buy one of my dogs. Why is that?”
I tell myself to not say what I’m thinking, but it doesn’t work. “Well, to be honest, I’ve seen the average price of one of your dogs. They cost a fortune. I can only imagine that the commission is enough incentive for you to pressure me into buying one.” Wow. I had no idea I could be any more rude to this woman than I already have been. Turns out, I had more left in the tank than I suspected.
Miss Jones breaks out in a mirthless laugh. She’s looking at me like I just ate cat food, thinking it was caviar. She pulls her feet up in her seat and sits cross-legged, and leans forward, resting her elbows on the table like she’s about to tell me a juicy secret.
“Jacob, may I call you Jacob?” I consider telling her to call me Jake but decide against it. “To continue your metaphor, these dogs are not used cars I’m trying to move off of a lot. They are highly trained animals that enhance the quality of—and often save—the lives of those living with disabilities. They do cost a lot of money to purchase, but that’s only because it costs an enormous amount to care for a service dog. Not only do we have to pay a breeder, but the extra health tests that a service dog has to undergo are not cheap.”
I open my mouth to say something—anything—but she’s apparently revoked my talking privileges, because she plows on. “And then there is food, grooming, training equipment, and the teeny-tiny salary that my colleague and I make in order to eat. And if you still don’t believe me that I’m not making commissions off of our dogs, I will be happy to show you my checking account, and you’ll be impressed to see that the total is exactly the same as my age.”
At this point, I’m wishing I could crawl under the table and disappear.
She still doesn’t give me a chance to talk. “I’m not in this for the money. I train and match dogs with recipients because Charlie gave me an independence and security that I thought I would have to sacrifice when I first started having seizures. I want others to have a chance at that same security.”
I know she’s telling the truth. I can see it in her eyes. They are like perfect open windows to her soul. Her passion is contagious, and I wish I hadn’t made that stupid comment about the price of the dogs. I knew she wasn’t making money off of them. I think I’m self-sabotaging because I’m scared of how impressed I am by her.
I drag in a deep breath. “I think I should just wear a sign around my neck that says I’m sorry any time you’re around. I honestly didn’t mean anything I said a minute ago. I’m just…looking for reasons to not get a dog for my daughter.”
“Can I ask why you’re here then? What made you text me and schedule another meeting?”
There are two answers to that question. I’ll only give her one of them.
“Ever since Samantha was diagnosed with epilepsy, six months ago, she’s changed. She used to be such a vibrant little girl, and now she’s closed off. She doesn’t smile as much, and she’s acting out in ways that seem too grown-up for a ten year old.”
Miss Jones smiles. “Like breaking into your email and impersonating you to get a meeting with a service dog company?”
I smile back and n
od. “Like that. And yesterday, when I turned you down for the meeting, Sam wouldn’t speak to me all the way home and then slammed the door on me after we got there.” I can’t believe I’m telling her all of this. And the way she never looks away from me is making me want to squirm. “Anyway…this has been the only thing she’s shown any excitement or interest in since learning of her condition, so I thought maybe I should at least hear you out.”
Miss Jones holds my gaze. Her eyes narrow slightly, and I wonder what she’s seeing. Her head tilts, and some of her hair spills over her shoulder. It’s curled in long, loose waves today, and before I can tell my brain to stop it, I wonder if she’s curled it for me.
“You’re not sleeping, are you?” she asks.
Her question is so out of left field that my head kicks back. How does she know that? Why is she asking? I’m curious where she’s going with this, so I answer honestly. “No. I wake up every hour to go check on her. I wanted her to sleep in my room with me, but she refused. She thinks my room is too boyish.”
I recall how I went to the home improvement store and almost bought three cans of bubble-gum-colored paint for my room before I chickened out.
“Does she spend most of her time in her room by herself?” she asks, and I nod. “And I’m guessing you’ve probably stopped letting her go to her friends’ houses?”
How could she possibly know that? Suddenly, I’m in an interrogation room, and she’s just grabbed the light and shined it in my face. It feels blinding.
“But I still let her invite them over,” I say, and there’s definitely a defensive edge to my tone.
“But you’re a single dad, so I’m guessing that the other moms haven’t been too excited about that prospect.”
Okay, who is this woman? Does she have a crystal ball shoved in her purse somewhere?
I lean forward. “Do you think that’s why none of her friends have come over?” I don’t like how insecure my voice sounds right now.
