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“Ready?” she asks, a hint of warmth breaking through.
“Lead the way.”
We step out into the day, the city sounds wrapping around us like a familiar melody. I let her set the pace, and we fall into a rhythm, Baxter trotting alongside us. Under Emily’s watchful eye, I stop when he pulls, and feed him treats when he stays next to me.
“Good boy, Baxter,” she praises, and there’s a lightness in her tone that wasn’t there before — a glimmer of camaraderie, perhaps?
“Seems like he’s really taking to the training,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual while my insides knot with hope. “You’ve done a great job with him.”
“Yeah, he is. And you’re not doing too bad yourself,” she replies, her gaze meeting mine.
Her smile hits me — a sunrise after a long, dark night — and I feel buoyed by its glow. That emptiness I felt earlier? It’s gone, blasted away by her mere presence.
“Thank you,” I manage, the words heavy with more than just gratitude for her comment. It’s an acknowledgment of the shift inside me, the tectonic plates of my life rearranging themselves in the wake of her influence.
“Keep it up,” she encourages, and I think — no, Iknow— that I might just be able to do this. To change. To manage Baxter. To lead the company.
With each treat, each command he obeys, I sense the weight of yesterday’s errors lifting, replaced by today’s achievements. Emily’s presence, once a storm cloud, now feels like shelter.
And is it just me, or does Baxter sense it too? He seems happier, his steps lighter than they were earlier.
Too soon, we’re home. The cool metal of the apartment door handle chills my palm as we step back into the quiet sanctuary I call home. Baxter’s leash hangs loose in my fingers, a reminder of the progress we’ve made today — progress Emily has coaxed from us both with patience I didn’t deserve.
“Good job today.” She lingers by the door, hands folded primly in front of her.
“Thank you,” I reply, my throat tightening with a mixture of pride and regret. “I owe you an apology for how I was yesterday. You were right about everything.”
She blushes — a soft bloom of color on her cheeks that makes her seem more real than she’s ever been. “Thank you. That means a lot.”
I watch her, the way her hair tumbles over her shoulders, framing the gentle curve of her jaw. The urge to ask her out for coffee — perhaps even a drink later tonight — gnaws at me, a hunger for connection that goes beyond Baxter’s training sessions. For years it’s been just me; the thought of it remaining that way stirs a restlessness deep within.
It’s unexpected, but I think my dad’s death is shifting things. Making me think about life in a new way, making me really look ahead and consider what’s down the line. My dad never remarried after my mom died, and I could always tell he was lonely. It made him bitter. Made him mean.
Do I really want to be the same way?
Even though I want to ask Emily for more time, I hold back, the reality of our professional relationship anchoring me down. Asking her out now could trap her in a predicament she doesn’t deserve. She might feel compelled to say yes, not out of desire, but out of fear for her job. I can’t do that to her — to us.
Baxter needs her. I need her. She’s a miracle worker, and the truth is that the dog training is more important than anything else right now.
“Anyway, I’ll see you next time,” she says, turning around, oblivious to the internal battle raging inside me.
“See you,” I murmur, and she gives me one last smile before slipping through the door.
As soon as the latch clicks behind her, chaos erupts. Baxter launches into a frenzied dash around the room, paws skidding across the polished floor. He bounds onto tables and chairs, upturning anything in his path. My commands fall on deaf ears — the structured harmony we had under Emily’s gaze disintegrating without her here.
“Baxter! Stop!” I reach out to grasp his collar, but he dodges me.
Desperation claws at my chest. What is it about me that makes him act up? With Emily, he’s an angel — a poster dog for obedience. With me, he’s a whirlwind of destruction.
“Enough, Baxter,” I command. But it’s no use; he’s a blur of fur, unheeding.
Sinking onto a chair, pieces of yet another mutilated pillow at my feet, I face the stark truth: Baxter doesn’t hate me — he’s indifferent. That, somehow, is so much worse.
He doesn’t want to please me. He doesn’t even want to hurt me. He just wants to be himself. And in that indifference lies a reflection of the isolation that permeates my life.
No wonder my father didn’t want to automatically turn the company over to me. He wanted me to prove myself first — which I am failing at.
He saw the truth. The truth I could never face. For whatever reason,Iam the problem.