I look around. Three or four people are videotaping the entire thing on their phones. A cop on a bicycle appears and stops.
I can barely breathe, and my cheekbone is wet. I can’t touch it, though, because eww. Dog pee.
I stand and look around. Bathroom. As I walk down the slight slope to it, I hear Marie say in an excited voice:
“Repay me? Oh, Jordan. My dear, sweet boy. You never have to repay me for doing a good deed and helping your mother’s precious Muffin. But...if you insist...are you free in July for a wedding at Farmington Country Club?”
Chapter Eleven
How was your date? the text reads. It’s a number I don’t know.
Hold on.
Yes I do.
It’s AJM.
Uneventful, I type back, lying.
YouTube says otherwise, he replies.
Oh, no.
I tap into my phone’s browser and search “hawk dog Boston” on YouTube.
There I am. Nine different video versions.
That was, um... is all I can type back. Words fail me.
You divebomb like that on all your dates? he texts.
Only when there’s something interesting to lunge at, I reply. I hit Send before I lose my nerve.
That can be arranged.
I stare at the words and blink. What is he doing?
I let three minutes go by. He made me wait nearly two years. I can make the man wait a hundred and eighty seconds.
He cracks. Hah.
Nothing new to add to your personal database? No entries?
I snort.
Not even a new row, I write back.
Why am I assuring him? Why is he texting me? What game is he playing? The first two times he kissed me I never heard from him again. For nearly two years I had to play a stupid game of Let’s Pretend, in which I went to the occasional client meeting where he was present and avoided eye contact.
Now we’re maid of honor and best man in Shannon and Declan’s wedding and I know his big secret and...what? What’s the significance here?
How about we extend one?
I frown. One what?
A row.
Which one?
Mine. Dinner tonight. I’ll pick you up.
Andrew just changed the game.
I am at home after texting Greg about the incident, which was technically a work related event. You can scare Greg with two simple sentences:
I was hurt at work.
and
I am experiencing my monthly.
Either one is quite effective.
He gave me permission to come home and clean myself up, then just manage mystery shopper updates from home. In addition to the new DoggieDate account, I am still handling all my ongoing mystery shop programs, which currently include Assisted Living evaluations, a chain of coffee houses and their new gluten-free pastries, legal insurance evaluations, hairdresser shops, and my personal favorite: tobacco compliance shops for liquor stores.
Try finding a bunch of twentysomethings who look like fifteen year olds but act like mature adults. Good luck with that.
I stare at Andrew’s last text. Our living room has an enormous mirror over the fireplace, and as a kid I used it to study myself. As I’ve aged, I look less often. Right now, though, I stand in front of it and really take a look at myself. Mom’s in her office, on a conference call for her job. I can hear intermittent typing as she takes notes.
Maybe I should be taking notes of a different kind.
My cheekbone is raw red, the nasty abrasion filling in with a few spots that will scab, but it mostly looks like a rug burn. My brown hair is wet and I’m wearing no makeup. I slipped into my comfortable jammies after my shower. Victoria’s Secret’s got nothing on flannel ducks.
It’s like he’s in the room with me, staring back from the mirror. Not in some creepy supernatural way, but like I’m looking at myself through the eyes of Andrew McCormick, as imagined by me.
Which doesn’t make sense, but falling for someone never does.
I sigh. My wide eyes look back at me with an openness, a pleading, a question. Are you going to leap? Are you prepared to go splat, like Muffin would have if you hadn’t been there to catch her? Is Andrew the hawk and I’m the prey?
What will he do with me when he catches me?
Devour me or drop me back to earth?
Only one way to find out.
I pick up my phone and text him back.
* * *
I’m applying makeup for my nine o’clock date with Andrew when my phone rings. I’ve gotten accustomed to texting after being mercilessly teased by Shannon about my actual telephone calling habits, and the sound of my ringtone is jarring.
It’s Queen’s “You’re My Best Friend,” so it must be—
“You’re a YouTube sensation,” Shannon declares as I put her on speakerphone.
“I’m a what?”
“Hashtags and all!” she crows. “Finally, I’m not the only one!”
“What are you talking about?” I ask, but I feel my voice fade as it dawns on me. All those people recording on their phones. “Oh, no. This is about Muffin, isn’t it?”
“Your hashtag is #doghater.”
“I have a hashtag? What?”
“Welcome to the club. At least yours doesn’t involve the word poop.”
“Dog what? Did you say #doghater? How can I be a dog hater? I saved the dog!”
“That’s not what I saw. Mom saved the dog. You just threw rocks at it.”
“WHAT?” I’m applying foundation so thick it could be memory foam to cover up the abrasion on my cheek from dive-bombing to catch Muffin. “I injured myself rescuing that dog!”
“The videos show otherwise. They show you throwing rocks at the hawk, the creepy little man screaming for someone to help, my mom grabbing the little kid’s helicopter remote control, and then Mom saves the day. Videos end with the man cradling the dog.”