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“Come on, bud,” I murmur to him, putting his leash on and leading him out of the car.
It’s my penance, this shopping spree — a small act of contrition for the betrayal that didn’t quite happen. Baxter’s tail wags, his nose sniffing at all the toys and chew treats. I toss a bone into the cart, then a plush toy, a rope tug-of-war, anything to maybe ease the sting of guilt.
“Sorry, pal,” I tell Baxter as we stand in line.
He doesn’t understand my words, but his brown eyes seem forgiving. Or maybe they’re just hopeful.
He’s not the only one I need to apologize to. I owe Emily a “sorry” as well. That is, if she’ll eventalkto me after the way I left her place last night.
God, I really wasn’t thinking straight, was I? I was ready to throw everything away — the company, Baxter, Emily — and why? Because I can’t get my dog under control?
Maybe I need more training than Baxter does.
At home, Baxter settles down with his new bone, gnawing contentedly. There’s a relief in seeing him like this — calm, occupied, happy. It’s the kind of peace I haven’t felt in a long time.
Maybe I’ll work from home today. I don’t have any in-person meetings scheduled, and Baxter is content here. Why risk taking him to the office only to have him destroy something?
But first… there’s something else I need to do.
I sink into the couch, the leather cool beneath me, and pull out my phone. My thumb hovers over Emily’s number, the significance of last night’s argument sitting heavy in my chest. The dial tone rings, a countdown to the unknown.
“Hello,” she answers, slowly, with hesitation.
“Emily, hey.” I clear my throat. “I… I’m sorry about storming out like that.”
There’s a pause, and I can picture her, weighing my words, deciding whether they’re enough.
“You were right,” I go on. “Baxter is mourning, and I haven’t taken that into consideration. He needs more attention and… time.”
“Everyone does when someone dies.”
I grimace at that. I’m not Baxter. I’ve pulled myself together. I’m moving forward. Her intention is good, though, and I’ve done enough arguing as it is.
“Will you give me another chance?” I ask. “Will you giveusanother chance? If not for me, then for Baxter? He says he misses you.”
That gets a laugh out of her — which makes me smile.
“He does, does he?” She chuckles again. “Yes, I’ll give you another chance.”
“Thanks, Em.” I mean it more than she knows. Her support is a lifeline I was too stupid to realize I need.
“Can we still do tomorrow?” I ask.
“Yes. Let’s do it. How is Baxter, by the way?”
“He’s great. I just got him a new bone and some toys. He’s on the floor right now munching on the bone.”
She’s probably being careful to not ask aboutmefollowing the blowup last night, and I feel terrible about that. I don’t have much experience talking about myself, though — not when it comes to personal matters. Besides, I’m fine. I’ve accepted my father’s death, and I’ve moved on.
“I also want to talk to you about crate training,” she starts.
“I got him a crate.” I grin, satisfied with myself.
“Oh. Wow. That’s good.”
“See you tomorrow?” I say, hating that I have to get to work but all too aware of the to-do list that won’t tackle itself.
“I look forward to it. Bye.”