A New Leash on Life (13 page)

“Yeah, of course.” Long pause. “Olivia, sweetheart, you should ask someone other than Phil to take care of the work at the shelter.”

“Will he be gone longer?”

“Once he comes back, I’m going to hand over a much more balanced Snowball and I’m going to go my own way.”

“Why?”

“He’s already talking marriage.”

She feared dependency more than I feared dying. I pictured her sleeping on a cart in the shelter’s backroom, fixing her meals on a hot plate. “Where are you going to live?”

“Don’t worry about me. I never lack for a solution.”

“But, he was your solution.”

“Your solution,” she said. “He was never my solution.”

I rubbed my eyes with my fist, warding off the beginning pangs of a headache. “You seemed so happy together.”

“Phil is traditional. He’ll never understand how I work.”

I didn’t understand how she worked. “You’re a complicated woman.”

“I guess that’s why we get along so well.”

“I can’t argue with you on that one,” I said. “Can’t you just tell him you’re not interested in anything more than being roommates?”

“Men like Phil aren’t interested in being roomies. I don’t want to bother him with my independence.”

Sometimes her ‘independence’ served as a good excuse to fold in on herself. The moment any of us did too many nice things for her, she stepped back for several weeks and came back revitalized, more free-spirited, and stronger. She hated being the taker. Now that she no longer could give how she wanted, she crumpled under the weight of guilt, of sadness, of weakness. Melanie didn’t understand how to be vulnerable.

“Don’t decide just yet,” I urged her. “Just wait out the few weeks he’s away and see if you feel the same way when he returns. If you’re in his way, you can come stay with me. I’ve got the sofa bed in the living room. We can flip a coin and see who lands on it.”

“Don’t worry about me. This will all work out.”

I hung up and worried. She would be kicked out of her home, reduced of her treatment center all because of me and my dependence on the good fortune of others instead of figuring out how to effectively fund the shelter in a financially responsible way. Without her consistent donation money, the shelter could fold.

I turned to my bank statement and cringed. How would I be in a position to serve the needs of animals in a town financially and physically ravaged with only three hundred and thirty-five dollars in the bank? I’d be homeless along with Melanie. The two of us would be circling around the kennels, sniffing out an appropriate spot to rest our tired, poor bodies.

I turned to some wine, and before long found myself desperately seeking out Chloe’s business card that I hid in my sock drawer. I fired up my Mac and landed on her website, Homestead Capital Ventures. The site, colored in blue and white, communicated loyalty. She invested in a host of organizations. A quote sat front and center on her homepage: “We’re proud of our projects, the experience of our team, and the breadth of our network – let’s talk about how we can put these resources to work for you.”

A knot pressed into my gut, fisting its way up the back of my throat. I read all about how she earned her first million investing in mobile home trailers. I could see her studying by a dim light in a public library, hungry for a sense of ownership over her life, transfixed on providing for a child and being the stand-up parent hers never were. I imagined her wearing business suits, talking with company heads, negotiating business deals. She always captivated, always persuaded. I even envisioned her team—a group of seasoned steel-headed men who smoked cigars and sipped brandy, circled around a boardroom table listening to Chloe dictate which companies they funded.

Her success intrigued me, tickled me, and drove me to drink a bottle of sangria as I sat staring at a picture of her looking every bit the part of a Wall Street whiz.

My mental footing slipped. I’d always been the one in control, the one she looked up to and relied on to protect and guide her in this world of money, danger, and abusers like her stepdad. I always assumed we’d get married, and I’d be the one supporting and protecting her, buying her Coach bags and taking her on expensive getaways. She’d look up to me as her mentor, and ask me questions all night long, a curious soul intent on one day rising to that occasion. I never imagined her alone in this world, running a successful venture capital company, being the one who controlled money flow and success. I never saw myself as the one who would crawl to her and beg her for help, for guidance, for protection against all the world had thrown at me. I never saw myself slipping, gripping a skinny rope for dear life, crying out for saving. I stood at the helm of fate, releasing my best friend into the wild without a morsel and failing to pay her back for her sacrifices, failing to provide my trusted assistants with a viable place of employment, and dishonoring the lives of countless animals in need because of stupid pride.

Pride eroded things. It corroded friendships, gutted businesses, murdered families, and worst of all, served as a stake nailing bad fortune into place for decades. I couldn’t let any of this happen. People relied on me. Animals relied on me. Melanie’s good vibes relied on my balancing things out in the universe. Natalie and Trevor’s livelihoods and senses of purpose relied on me to get my act together, to swallow my useless pride, and to just ask the freaking girl for some financial help.

By ten o’clock that night, ignoring the pull on my chest, the lack of air in my lungs, I caved and finally called her.

~ ~

She agreed to meet me down the road at the only working diner in town. As I entered, I reminded myself that the shelter needed her, Melanie needed her, Natalie and Trevor needed her, the animals needed her. I did not need her, at least in any other way than her money.

I entered and waved at Rick, the owner and cook. The fifties-style diner smelled like percolated coffee and pancakes. Elvis blared over the mini jukeboxes. Silverware and plates clanked. Light chatter filled the small space. Only four other tables brimmed with customers, a sad reality since the storm. No one spent their money on anything other than hammers, nails, sheet rock, and new carpeting. Pancakes, Belgian waffles, and maple syrup were not necessities.

Chloe sat in the same booth we used to occupy over a decade earlier as horny, innocent fools. She greeted me with her sweet smile. I strolled over to her, mindful of her new side-swept bangs and her cleavage poking out of her fitted scoop-neck t-shirt.

She stood when I arrived at the table and drew me into her arms, patting my back. Her soft black layers tickled my cheek.

I pulled back. “Thanks for meeting me.”

Her glossy lips curved up and a tiny flirt rested in her eyes. “I’m happy you called me.”

We both slid into our respective seats. An espresso sat in front of her, a remnant of her fabricated New York City life. “I’m surprised they knew how to make one of those here.”

“Oh, I instructed the man behind the counter a bit.” She leaned into the table, spreading her presence wide so that it filled the space. She circled her lips up to the brim of the delicate white mug and sipped.

Sally, an older lady with a one-inch band of silver at her roots, arrived at our table with a sunny smile. “Hey, doll. Espresso for you, too?”

“Since when do I drink espresso?”

She chuckled, stuck her pen above her ear, and strolled away leaving the two of us alone in our little pocket of air. I folded my hands and sat tall, leaning slightly forward. She rested back against the booth with ease playing on her face, looping those eyes around that part of me that melted with her single tug.

I plucked up the menu and dove into it for escape.

She followed my lead. “Everything looks so delicious.”

I scanned the pictures of a mushroom omelet dripping in butter, a three-inch stack of blueberry pancakes drowning in maple syrup, and golden hash browns sprinkled in salt crystals. I always ordered two eggs over medium and a side of hash browns. Yet, I dissected each picture afraid to get lost in Chloe’s soft glance. I zeroed in on that menu until Sally returned with my steaming mug of coffee.

“The usual?” she asked me.

I handed her the menu. “I’ll just have a couple of eggs and a side of hash browns.”

“You got it.” She jotted this down as if I’d just tossed her a complicated new order.

“Can I get oatmeal, plain, and three scrambled egg whites with some salsa?” Chloe asked.

Sally jotted this down, too. “Healthy and boring. You got it, sweetie.” She grabbed her menu.

Chloe slipped me a glance that sent me spinning. I escaped to the saltshaker this time, twirling it around my fingers and examining the rice grains at the bottom.

“How’s Josh these days?” she asked.

“Josh is Josh.” I passed the shaker back and forth between my fingers. “He’s married and has a son named Thomas. Cute kid.”

She nodded. “Whatever happened to that football career he bragged about?”

“He played for two seasons in college but then hurt his knee. He fell madly in love with his physical therapist and married her.”

“I never pictured Josh to be a family man.” Her tone tightened. “He struck me as a lifelong bachelor who would travel and flirt his way through life.”

“He’s a good dad,” I said, defending him. “He hangs out with Thomas as much as possible. He’s his coach and fix-it buddy. He reminds me of my dad.”

She forced a smile this time. “Your dad. Now he was a great man.”

“He was.”

Chloe sank into the moment with me, tilting her head and nodding. “He was my father figure.”

I couldn’t imagine my childhood without a dad who loved me. I lowered my guard to comfort her on this. “He cared about you, you know.”

She pursed her lips and grabbed the peppershaker, fiddling with something now, too. “If only he knew I snuck in every night. Not sure he would’ve taken me under his wing all those times he tried showing me how to fix motors in the garage.”

“Better you than me.” I hated fiddling with tools and engines. “Josh and I will be eternally grateful to you for sparing us from his mechanic lessons.”

She stopped twirling her shaker and reached out for my hands. “Those were good times.”

I pulled back. “All good things end.” I still cried into my pillow some nights over the void.

She spun the peppershaker in her hands again, and I reciprocated with my saltshaker. Thirteen years of separation from those good times and we had turned into a couple of condiment majorettes.

“So,” I said, deciding for us both that one of us needed to take the reins on this visit.

“So.” She looked up and caught my eye. “The shelter’s in trouble?”

I sat back and released the shaker. What an understatement. “We’re having a few small issues, yes.” I saw her investor mission statement in my mind: “Serving your needs, so you can get back to serving others.”

“I want to help.”

I folded my hands under my legs, contemplating her motive. “Why do you want to help me?”

“It’s the right thing to do,” she shrugged.

I gripped the seat. “You don’t owe me if that’s what this is about.”

She leaned in. The lights bounced off the gloss on her lips. “Maybe I just want to be generous.”

I tore away from her moist lips and down to her slender fingers. “Well, you’re certainly in a position to be.” Where her bio failed to explain, I wanted her to pick up the pieces. I wanted to learn how she went from poor kid without a family to a smashing success. “How did you earn all of your money with everything you had to deal with? Did you win the lottery or something?”

She backed against the booth with a trail of hurt on her face. “I’m a capable person.”

I fled to her rescue. “I’m sorry. That sounded wrong.”

She cushioned me against the booth seat with her downy eyes. “You’ve always pitied me.”

“No,” I stammered, locking eyes with her.

A sparkle rested on the strong spokes of her eyes. “Yes, you did. That’s okay. In your defense, I did spend my high school years sneaking into your room, because I had no room of my own. I was homeless at sixteen. I wore your clothes and shoes. I ate dinner with your family. I hung out with your dad in his garage on the weekends.”

I hated the garage and had avoided it every chance I could. My dad always raked her in every Saturday morning when she’d pass him by on her fake walk up the front driveway. Little did my dad know that she had just climbed down the tree from my bedroom and circled around the front of the house. “I hated that garage.”

“I loved it. Your dad taught me a lot. I wanted to learn how to fix things in case one day I had to actually fend for myself.”

I always assumed she relied on me back then to be her savior, to be the one to rescue her from her hardships. “I never knew you worried about that.”

“Not an easy thing to admit.” She gazed into my eyes. “Just like it’s not easy for you to take help from me, is it?” She smiled and eased into her espresso.

I spent too many years rebuilding myself for her to waltz into my life and act like she had an edge over me. She’d have to fight me for the upper hand with more than a pretty set of eyes. “I don’t understand your motive.”

“Motive?” She placed her mug down.

“You feel guilty and you shouldn’t. We needed to go through the fun just like we needed to go through the breakup. You needed to cheat on me. I needed to be cheated on. You gave birth to a baby. That baby is alive because she is supposed to be. What we went through needed to happen. I don’t hold any grudges. Your actions are just that, your actions. So, if you’re coming here to settle some guilty part of your conscience, you don’t need to. I’m fine with how everything went down. I haven’t given it a second thought in years.”

She blinked and her eyes watered. “You still hate me.”

“No,” I slapped the table. “Didn’t you hear anything I just said?”

“You’re angry still.”

She stole my grounding again, rendering me incapable of standing tall and prominent against her shortcomings. “I’m not angry,” I said in a whisper. “I have no reason to be.”

She exhaled. “I want to help as a friend, as a concerned fellow animal protector and lover. I see value in your work. After your segment aired I researched nonprofit, no-kill shelters to learn more about how they can operate under such hopeful guidelines and my heart started breaking. I read stories about how other shelters operated and determined which dogs and cats got euthanized and about the sad statistics of how many animals get dumped off each year compared to how many pets are bought at puppy mill supporting pet stores. We can do better than that.”