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“I always thought Terrance could be more,” I say softly.
He shakes his head. “You’re the only one. Remember the shrink I had to see when the cops finally got involved?”
“My mom set it up,” I say, recalling my parents’ frantic search to find the best childhood trauma specialist in New York State.
“The psychologist explained that I might be ‘held captive’ by my childhood trauma,” he says. “She predicted the rest of my life would be overshadowed by PTSD, and warned I might become addicted to drugs or have suicidal thoughts. She’d seen it happen before with kids who were bullied for years, and many of those children had supportive families. My foster parents were worse than the kids at school.”
“I know, Gavin.” I talked to him after his appointments with the doctor. As a teenager, I was terrified for my friend.
“I had to give up on Terrance. I needed to be someone else. I still do,” he says quietly. “Please help me, Kayla. I can’t let the world see me as the kid in that picture.”
I glance at the Shepard nudging Gavin’s hand with her long nose, eager for more petting. Rocky moves to Gavin’s left side, unwilling to let Ava get all of the attention.
This won’t end well. My dogs will accidentally pee on his expensive rugs, and my cats will destroy his furniture while sharpening their claws. I glance down at Ginger. Perched on my sneaker, my tabby’s washing her face with one paw.
Ginger will shred his fancy couch intentionally, and she’ll enjoy every minute. That’s the reason her last family turned her over to the shelter. She ruined their furniture. I’m still so furious with her former owners for choosing inanimate objects over their cat that I let her tear apart mine. But everything in this house is second hand. I didn’t take a single piece of furniture from the Westchester home I shared with Mr. Mistake.
What if Gavin holds the destroyed upholstery against Ginger? What if he gets mad at her?
And what if he doesn’t? What if he allows her to wreck everything in his home?
The furniture won’t be the only thing torn to pieces. He’ll shred my heart.
“Bring your pets,” Gavin adds quickly. “But that’s not my proposition.”
“There’s more?” I murmur. I am going to agree to his crazy plan regardless of his proposition. I won’t let anything, past or present, hold my best friend captive.
He doesn’t crack a smile. Not even a hint. His fingertips brush the top of Rocky’s head. My pup returns the love, licking his hand.
“Don’t you dare offer to pay me,” I add.
The “what ifs” return, flooding my mind with questions. What if he kisses me in front of his friends to prove our engagement? I can’t accept money for kissing my best friend. I can’t take money for kissing anyone.
“I wouldn’t dream of it,” he says.
This time he smiles. And oh my, the movement draws my attention to his stubble. His jawline is model perfect.
“I would offer to fund Kayla’s Animal Farm Sanctuary for Unwanted Dogs,”
he continues. “Or whatever you’re calling your project these days.”
“I don’t have a name,” I say faintly. “Yet.”
But I do have a vision. If I had the capital, I would renovate the dilapidated barn on the border between our properties. Technically, it resides on Gavin’s side, but he would let me use it. It’s not like he’s planning to store hay and cows at the country house he rarely visits.
In the barn, I would create a farm for dogs to run and play. Then I’d reach out to shelters in the area and offer to take the pups that have spent years waiting for a home. Dogs like Ava, the ones passed over by families who thought her fierce smile meant she might bite young children. Or dogs like Luna who seemed a little too resistant to house training. Or the ones like Rocky who were simply too old when compared to the cute puppy in the cage next door … I would give them all a forever home.
But the settlement from my divorce would never cover the start-up costs, especially if I wish to continue eating too. I’m currently living off the money the judge forced my ex-husband to hand over. The occasional dog-training gig or the days spent substitute teaching at the local elementary school don’t cover the cost of maintaining my four-dog household, never mind a non-profit sanctuary.
“I’ll fund the initial costs as a donation,” Gavin continues. “I’ll have my team help you get set-up as a non-profit. Then we’ll throw an engagement party that doubles as a fundraiser. We’ll build your donor list in a single night.”
“You’re talking about hundreds of thousands of dollars,” I say.
“For a good cause. Please say yes.”
Rocky stops licking Gavin’s hand long enough to give me his best beggar’s look. Please can we keep this dog too? My old lab mix doesn’t need to say the words. I can see the plea in his dark eyes.
“Yes.”
