whines.
The most gut-wrenching sobs are shaking Maya’s shoulders. I drop to the concrete next to her,
something wet seeping into my pants, but I can’t be bothered to care. All I can focus on is the pain
she’s feeling and figuring out how the hell to stop it.
I run through my options in my head. Do I put my arm over her shoulder? Do I rub her back? Do I
just sit with her? All the options are a confusing jumble.
“Fuck it,” I mumble and scoop her onto my lap. She gasps, and stiffens briefly, then sags in my
arms. She wipes at her cheeks roughly, trying to erase signs of her pain. I cup her hands in one of mine
and bring them down to her chest, holding tight. She doesn’t have to hide her feelings from me, ever.
“Baby, tell me what’s wrong. How can I fix it?”
She lets out a cross between a sob and a snort and drops her head on my chest, staring off at the
far end of the rescue where my brothers are all gathered. “You can’t fix this,” she says, her voice
thick with tears.
Not fix it? Not a fucking option. I can’t handle her this upset and not have some way of making it
better. “The hell I can’t. I’m stupid rich, remember? Money can fix almost everything. So just tell me
what’s wrong. Your tears are killing me.” She rolls her head until her forehead is resting on my chest.
She sighs heavily and closes her eyes.
“I miss my dog,” she mumbles against my crisp white shirt.
“Ah. Okay. Is it back home?” As soon as the words are out, I realize I’m a fucking idiot. She
wouldn’t be sobbing like this if she was missing an alive dog. Damn these alcohol-soaked brain cells.
“I mean, I’m sorry. She’s not back home, right? She’s…” I almost let go of her hands to make a
slashing motion across my neck, but stop myself in the nick of time. There would be no coming back
from that. She would get up and walk right out of here, and I wouldn’t blame her.
Briefly removing my hand from her back, I pinch my thigh until tears fill my eyes. The pain does
what it’s supposed to and helps me chase away a bit more of the drunk.
I can’t say I understand this level of grief for a dog, but I’ve never owned a pet, and I have no
fucking clue if this is normal or…I have no idea. But I do know how to handle emotional meltdowns.
I’m a pro at that. With Jonas, the first step would be to make sure he was comfortable with contact,
but I can cross that worry off my list. Maya’s spine has the consistency of overcooked spaghetti right
now as she rests against me.
