Page 38 of Finding Mr. July

I am thirty-four years old. I’ve gone to college and law school, I’ve been involved in sports, I’ve traveled, and I’ve worked several jobs.

I’ve lived some. So why do I not have more contacts in my phone?

It takes less than an hour to call everyone I know (or everyone who could reasonably be expected to call back anyway) to ask them who they know who is a dog owner that might want to be my Mr. July.

Since it’s a Saturday, I leave lots of messages.

People are busy—I know that. But every time I get voice mail, I grow more dejected.

Not everyone returns calls right away, and I don’t have time to wait.

Not even Rachel picks up. She’s at a classic car meet in Bend, Oregon, with her dad for the weekend.

My follow-ups to pet stores and puppy-training places yield nothing, and of our previous models, I only reach Robert and Ava’s tennis coach, who says he might know a few people, but he can’t guarantee they’ll get back to him before Monday.

I tell him to do what he can, but deep inside, I know it’s another dead end.

Robert is just back from New York and says he’ll let me know Sunday if he’s free, but I won’t be holding my breath.

Jude and Ava are in the kitchen when I enter in search of anything chocolate for comfort. Ava is making an omelet for lunch, and it smells amazing. She has two plates out, which I take as another sign that she’s no longer giving her dad the cold shoulder.

“I didn’t know you were here,” Ava says to me. “I would have made more food, but I thought you were staying over at Jonathan’s.”

That makes two of us, but I’m still having a hard time with his immediate refusal to save my project. The fact that he wouldn’t even discuss it doesn’t sit well with me, and since he didn’t mention me coming over after our little spat, I assume he feels equally ruffled.

“That’s okay. I don’t need food. Something sweet to skyrocket my blood sugar will do the trick. Do we still have boxes of Girl Scout cookies somewhere?”

“No luck finding another model, then?” Jude asks.

I shake my head. “Maybe Robert, but he’s more unreliable than a Pacific Northwest weather forecast. Can you please call some of your coworkers?”

“I already told you—the ones I’m close with don’t have pets. Well, Lorna has two cats, but that’s not what you’re looking for.”

“What about the ones you’re not close with?”

He raises an eyebrow at my desperate question.

“I know, I know—inappropriate, crossing professional boundaries, yada, yada, yada.”

“I’m sorry, Hols. I wish I knew someone, I really do,” he says.

“What about you?” I ask Ava. “Any hot teachers I could reach out to?”

She sputters a laugh. “No. Jeez, you have run out of options, haven’t you?”

“Damn it.” I sit down, grab Jude’s fork, and help myself to a bite of his omelet.

“By all means,” he says, pushing his plate closer to me.

“Sorry,” I say, shoving a second bite into my mouth. “When I’m stressed, I eat. You should have seen the amounts of ice cream I devoured the day I quit Heckles and Romer.”

“I can have a sandwich,” Jude offers.

“No.” A third bite, and then I return the plate to him. “I’ll find something else. Thanks, though. I’m just stuck.”

“And you’re sure Jonathan won’t do it?” Ava asks, sitting down to join us. “Maybe he needed to sleep on it.”

He did come around on working together. With Manny’s help , a voice in my head reminds me. Somehow, I doubt our boss would be willing to exert any leverage to make Jonathan get in front of the camera. No, this one is on me.

“Are you seeing him tonight?” Jude asks.

“I don’t know.” This was definitely not what I had in mind when I considered shaking up our relationship a bit. “I mean, I want to.”

I get up and grab a can of cola from the fridge.

It’s not chocolate, and I rarely drink soft drinks anymore, but I need the boost. Could it be that Ava is right and Jonathan as Mr. July is still a possibility?

“I’m going to text him,” I announce, setting down the barely sampled can. “Or I’ll go over there.”

Jude frowns. “You know, there could be another reason why he doesn’t—”

Ava cuts him off. “I bet he’ll come around. He’s really into you.”

Her suggestion manages to spark that fizziness in my belly despite what happened yesterday, so I take that as a good sign. I smile at my niece. “Let’s hope so.” I turn to Jude. “What were you going to say? Something about another reason?”

He pauses for a beat. “I don’t know.” Taps the countertop. “Could it be…”

“Spit it out.”

“Fine. Maybe he doesn’t want to help because if you win, he loses.” Jude squints at me.

“Loses what?”

He groans. “You.”

Ava gawks at her dad and turns to me.

“No.” I wait for his words to settle, but they don’t. They buzz about in my head like mosquitos in ambush when you’ve tucked in for the night. “No, that’s not… He wouldn’t.” I swat at the words to make them stop attacking. Jonathan is not that selfish.

Jude shrugs. “It was only a thought. I’m probably wrong.”

“As usual,” Ava quips, but she does it with a wink that triggers some good, old father-daughter banter.

I take that opportunity to excuse myself and pull up my message thread with Jonathan. I weigh my words carefully as I type to avoid appearing confrontational. Can I see you tonight? Will bring food.

I don’t have to wait more than a few seconds for his reply.

Please , he texts. I’m starving.

I smile to myself. What are you in the mood for?

He takes longer to respond this time, and when he does, it’s with an apology. Sorry, Sir Leonard and I are on a walk with Dad.

As the three moving dots jiggle, I roll my eyes at the stupid twinge of jealousy that inevitably jars me at hearing of his newfound canine companion. “He’s a dog,” I mutter to myself. “Get a grip.”

I’m up for anything. Just want to see you , comes his response.

The optimist in me stirs. Seven? I ask.

Six , he responds.

All the better.

I have one more shot. One more shot to convince Jonathan to model for me. One more shot to finish the calendar. One more shot at the future I’ve pictured since I lost my old job.

I open the photos I’ve saved to my phone of apartments in Glasgow and start scrolling.

It’s so easy to picture myself there. Far from Washington.

Doing good work. Popping down to the local pub for happy hour with my new colleagues who share my need for making a difference.

Hiking around Loch Lomond on my days off.

I’ll be happy when I’m there—I know I will. Happy starting over.

I flip to the next photo, and there’s Jonathan playing the piano with his band at the blues bar a couple of weeks ago. Our first date.

As I stare at the photo, something strange happens in my chest at the sight of the familiar focus he exudes.

First, a tightening, heavy and dense, that makes my shoulders slump.

Then a slowing of the heart into a somber rhythm.

And last, the sensation of the two merging, which makes breathing hard.

The feeling moves up through my throat where it lodges itself into an unnerving hurdle that makes my eyes burn.

I return to the image of a town house complete with a cheery kettle on the stove and blooming roses outside the window, but it doesn’t help. A tear still breaks free and drips onto my screen.

So dumb , I tell myself. A bit of fear of the unknown.

But as soon as I flip back to the picture of Jonathan, I know that’s not what’s amiss.

It’s the starting over. Specifically, the starting over without him.

Still dumb , my inner voice persists. And it’s right. I’ve come too far to lose sight of my goal now.