“Hell no, you know I draw the line at Republicans,” says Natalie. “She just wanted the water view. I mean, her condoisreally nice.”
“You saw her place, then?”
She laughs again. “Yeah, we went upstairs afterwards.”
As the bartender delivers our drinks, it hits me: “Wait a minute, you were at the bar last night? You don’t usually work Mondays.”
“It was a last-minute thing. I had to cover for someone.”
“When did you get home?”
“A little after one.”
“Natalie! Why didn’t you tell me? Fritter was alone that whole time? And now you’ve been out practically all day?”
“Oh my God, Margo. Fritter is fine. He’s only a dog. He sleeps the whole time I’m gone.”
Only a dog.
The rage that I’ve suppressed since Ian called off our house hunt last night simmers dangerously close to the surface. I imagine crushing my cocktail glass against the side of her dumb, blindingly blond head. Instead, I take a healthy slug from it and will the pitch of my voice to stay even.
“But wouldn’t you feel better knowing he was with someone?” I ask. “Eating his dinner on time, and not feeling like his bladder might explode?”
Is she a fucking sociopath?
She rolls her eyes. “You’re always wound so tight, Margo. Didn’t your doctor say that’s why you can’t get pregnant?”
Isn’t that rich—a medical opinion from someone who counts uppers and downers as separate food groups. The rage is in a full-on tantrum now, thrashing and scratching to be let out. But before I can unleash it, my mind skips to a future where Natalie has taken back her key and revoked my Fritter privileges, where all I can do is pace around my shoebox on the nights I know she’s working, convinced I can hear him crying two floors above.
Leaving him behind is the only thing I’m dreading about finally breaking out of that hellhole. But I’ll offer to watch him at our new place, on the weekends at least, so he can experience a real backyard.
I take another long drink.
“I don’t mean to overstep,” I say. “I just love that dog, so please, just tell me when you’ll be gone and I’ll hang out with him. I’m always happy to do it.”
She sighs. “I know you are, it just slipped my mind to text you last night.” She pauses to scroll through her phone. When she looks back up, she tilts her head. “If you love Fritter so much, why don’t you guys get your own dog?”
“I would love to, but we’re waiting to find a house first.”
“You really have a whole checklist, don’t you? House. Baby. Dog.” She holds up a finger as she counts off each item. Then, smirking, adds: “Menopause. Death.”
“I guess so,” I say, smiling, refusing to give her the satisfaction of getting under my skin.
“Well, I do appreciate how great you are with him. You’re a natural,” she says. “You really didn’t have dogs growing up?”
“No, not really.”
“What does that mean?” she asks.
My chest tightens.
I was nine when I found Blossom by the dumpsters behind our townhouse. It was summer and Mitch was supposed to be watching me, but he’d gone to the neighbor’s to play Nintendo. I’d been riding my bike around the parking lot, the July sun blasting down, then radiating back up from the blacktop. I was drenched in sweat by the time I heard it—a small but forceful bark. She only did it once.
I threw down my kickstand and ran over to the two smelly green bins. She was between them, a matted dark-gray mop that reminded me of Toto fromThe Wizard of Oz.A crow was eyeing the Burger King wrapper she held beneath her front paws. I shooed away the bird and squatted down, instantly recognizing something of myself in those uneasy eyes.
“Come on, it’s okay,” I whispered, holding out a hand. She gaveit a lick, then let me scoop her up. I bathed her with dish soap—we’d learned in school that they sometimes did that for animals who’d been in oil spills—and fed her leftover chicken from a Tupperware in the fridge. We fell asleep together in my bed and didn’t wake up again until my mom got home from work. Blossom (yes, like the TV show) started barking as soon as she heard the door.
“Margo?” My mom raced into my room, wearing the frantic expression I’d last seen when my dad caught her hiding T.J. Maxx bags in my closet. “Oh my God, Margo. Where did you get that?”
