I wrestle open the passenger side door using one hand and my butt. After I set the plant, backpack, and mug down on the floor, I hop into the passenger seat, then scoot across the console to the driver’s side.
Hey, it’s how I get my push-ups in. My arms will be rock hard someday soon.
I turn on Roxie and pull out of the lot, wishing she would squeal as I peel off, but she wheezes instead, since she’s stitched together by spark plugs, a persnickety turn signal, and hope.
Once I’m a block away and out of sight, my eyes flood, and I jerk the car toward the curb, cutting the engine before my vision goes blurry. Dropping my head on the steering wheel, I let the stupid tears fall.
For once, I’d just like something to work out in the work department.
* * *
As I’m staring into the freezer weighing whether salted caramel tiramisu ice cream or super-chunk brownie goes better with boxed wine for my pity party of one, a notification chirps at me from my phone. I glance listlessly down at the screen on my kitchen counter.
Florence Faye’s Fete.
That’s tonight? I’d forgotten all about the comedian’s party in the aftermath of getting fired. No way can I get ready in time. It starts in two hours and it’s in the city, where she lives part-time, since she also has a place a few towns away. The city’s at least an hour and a half from here. Like I’d be good company tonight for anyone anyway. Except Captain. My German Shepherd mutt lies curled up by my feet on the tiled floor.
But as I reach for the salted caramel tiramisu pint—since when in doubt, always go with salted caramel tiramisu—a voice in my head says,You dumbass.
Great. Now the voice in my head is insulting me.
Psst. The party isn’t for Florence. It’s for her dog.
Ohhhh.
A smile forms, slow and devilish. I jam the carton back in the freezer and slam the door. “Thank you, voice in my head.”
After her recent Webflix special became a huge hit, the comedian hired me this spring to train her dog for her upcoming tour. Tonight is Bagel’s birthday party down in San Francisco. An extravagant, over-the-top affair. Which means there will be potential clients there. Imagine when they find out I’m the one who taught Florence’s Corgi mix to trot across the stage and high-five her—high paw her—before the start of each stage show?
Excitement courses through me since when one door closes, another one opens. All I need to do is network my ass off tonight. I hunt through my past emails for the details on the party. When I find it, I scan for the location, then read theno gifts pleasenote too.
I run some quick calculations. A speedy shower and outfit selection and I should be able to pull this off. I’ll be on the road and dropping Captain at my mom’s in no time.
Sure, it’s a dog party, but I’ll network better without a pooch by my side.
I strip off my sweats and fuzzy socks and run into the bathroom, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor behind me, next to the estimate from the car repair shop to get my door working again. Like I can even afford to sort out all of Roxie’s problems even with the discount the sweet owner is offering me since she’s a friend of my mom’s.
Thirty-five minutes later, I’m fresh as fuck, and I’ve dropped Captain at my mom’s, so he can play with her Golden mix Penny Lane. I scoot across the passenger seat again, dressed for the festivities. Well, the dress code did sayfabulous.
I’m wearing a white summery dress with light-blue Converse sneakers, my hair piled into a bun, and just the right amount of makeup. I head out of town, blasting girl power anthems the whole drive down to the city and praying the car speakers don’t die along the way.
Or the spark plugs either.
But parking costs a couple kidneys in this section of Hayes Valley. At a traffic light, I do a quick search for the closest discount parking, then locate it a half mile from the party. I snag a spot. The all-day price is less than the four-hour one, so I opt for the cheaper option, naturally. After I tuck my phone and lipstick into a tiny thrifted Coach clutch, I walk to Bagel’s third birthday party in the heart of the fancy-pants neighborhood.
I unlock the first of the double gates—they’re white wood and pristine—and my eyes widen. I knew the event was bougie, since it’s held at a just-opened dog park. But wow—is that a lake over there for the dogs to splash around in? Well, it sure seems to be since it’s filled with Labs and Collies paddling after tennis balls.
I open the second gate, then shut it behind me and gawk.
A long, high table by a gazebo holds a cake large enough for me to make out the wordsBest Boywritten in a curly font above a dog bone illustration. A gate keeps the industrious pups out of the gazebo, where buffet tables are set up with appetizers and other treats for humans. Off in another corner of the lush, emerald-green lawn are baskets full of dog toys. And next to that is a stage. A band is setting up.
It’s so over the top, and this is exactly what I need. The chanceto chat with one chichi, dog-loving client after another. I squint. I’m pretty sure I spot a rising-star actress over there by the lake. Is that Veronica Angel? Her role as a zodiac-obsessed, heart-on-her-sleeve hippie in a dark comedy has been all the rage, and with good reason—who doesn’t love a zodiac lover. Maybe there are agents here, too, repping dogs? Producers for, I don’t know, dog reality shows?
As I head deeper into the park, Florence spots me, waving grandly my way, bangles sliding down the bronze skin of her arms. She scurries over, a smile cresting across her face. She’s probably coming over to tell me how excited she is to introduce me to everyone.
“You made it, babe,” Florence says, then tosses her arms around me. She’s a hugger all right, and I’ve had to become a hugger thanks to all the octopuses in my life, so I step into her embrace.
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. This party is amazing, and Bagel deserves to have all the fun,” I say once she lets go.
