The old man glances up at me and nods. “Just a little winded, is all. And I had to leave my bird, Prissy. I hope she’s okay. And I can’t find my Diana.”
I cock my head and give him a sympathetic nod, even though I hate that bird of his and his wife, Diana, has been dead for two years. She squawks like a motherfucker. The bird, not the dead wife. I can hear her two-stories down at breakfast and dinner every day. The bird goes nuts when she isn’t fed on time. And honestly, I think Mr. Collins often forgets.
His symptoms are very similar to what I experienced with my Granny, who is now in a nursing facility after putting up a big fight before moving out of our family home in Connecticut.
“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” I placate, not knowing how tonight will even end up.
The alarm sounded, and we evacuated twenty minutes ago. Meanwhile, firefighters have been running in and out of the building in search of any telltale signs of fire. I crane my neck to look upwards, seeing no immediate signs of smoke or fire. Must be a false alarm.
Which only aids in my frustration and need for sleep. My schedule is packed tomorrow, and I have an important client presentation I need to prepare for in the morning. The time on my phone displays three-thirty a.m. I’d been home and in bed for less than two hours before all this chaos ensued.
Earlier in the night, I’d gone over to Margo’s for drinks, our typical weekly event. After our regular fun and dirty fuck, I was preparing to leave her place when she opened a Pandora’s Box, starting a fight with me about our relationship status.
When I said, “What relationship status?” she went ballistic. Unbeknownst to me, something changed with her understanding of our arrangement in the past few weeks. And tonight—after I’d fucked her over her kitchen table—she unwisely started lecturing me over my “lack of engagement.”
As in, we are definitely no longer on the same page with our fuck-buddies situation. And while I told her early on that I was not serious boyfriend material and I never would be, she seemed to forget that conversation.
So, I got dressed, kissed her cheek, and left her place around one a.m., knowing it would likely be the last time I’d see her again.
On top of that, my week is utter shit. I’m cleaning up a mess one of my junior analysts created with a client that cost us a couple hundred grand. Had I not caught the error, it could’ve easily been twice as costly of a mistake. I conveniently left that out of my texts to Graham.
And Granny broke her ankle and needed to be restrained, but was otherwise doing well, according to her caretaker.
This isn’t the first time Granny has become agitated, and her unwillingness to be helpful causes accidental injuries. It only makes my guilt rise higher, since I’m not there to take care of her and can’t get back to my hometown of Mystic, Connecticut as often as I like.
Just like it was seven years ago when I wasn’t there for my sister, Mel, when she needed me.
Shit. When will this week end?
Tonight was supposed to help take my mind off things. All I wanted was to get laid and get some sleep. Instead, I stand outside my apartment building with the rest of the tenants, waiting to learn if we’ll even be able to return to our own beds tonight.
Blackie’s name being shouted and called in a panicked and shrill voice grabs my attention. I swivel my head around, searching in which direction the sound is coming from.
I lean back and peer down the alleyway and see Graham’s dog-sitter running up and down the sidewalk, a wool blanket in tow, calling out over and over again for Blackie, frantically stopping to ask each group of bystanders if they’ve seen him.
Ah, shit.
Her eyes connect with mine, and I can see tears streaming down her cheeks, the panic visible from her expression. A lump lodges in the back of my throat, bubbling up in an angry, unapologetic fireball as I stride toward her.
Instead of helping, I unleash an accusatory attack on this poor girl. My words are full of reproach. I blame my sleeplessness and stress on my reaction.
“How the fuck did you lose Graham’s dog? You’re supposed to be watching him.”
She hiccups and babbles in incomplete sentences, strands of hair flying across her face as her head shakes hysterically. “I didn’t grab his leash. . . when the fireman gave me a blanket. . .”Hiccup. Hiccup.
“I set him down. . . and then the fire truck. . . oh my God, Miles, please help me find him!”
I’ll find it odd later that she called me by name, considering we haven’t been properly introduced, but for now, I exhale sharply and nod in resignation.
“Fuuuuck,” I groan, rubbing my temple with fierce strokes of my fingers before pointing at her. “I’m only doing this for Graham. Not to save your incompetent ass.”
She nods in apologetic understanding, and her eyes pierce me with recognition. It reminds me of something from the past. The pleading look. The sadness and sorrow.
Shaking off the strange feeling, I devise a plan. “Which way did he run off? We can head that way together and then split off down the side streets in different directions.”
The woman’s hand darts out from under the blanket and points to the right. “That way.”
“Okay. Let’s go find Blackie.”
