I suck air in through my teeth. “Oh, you know, you really don’t have to.”
“Nonsense, I don’t mind at all.” Samantha smacks her hand on my desk like a gavel, settling it.
“A woman doesn’t need a partner to complete her, but it does make the years a bit brighter having someone to share them with,” Linda says, her expression growing distant and wistful. “My Debbie and I shared eighteen wonderful years together before she passed. It was wonderful having someone to build a life with, to have a shared history with, to create plans and memories and...”
Samantha pats Linda’s back as her eyes become teary, and I reach over and take one of her hands in mine.
Linda gives us a small smile. “My point is, you are young and kind and intelligent. Don’t let one bad date get in the way of finding your person—if that’s whatyouwant.”
I give her a small nod. “I do want that.” And, despite all the shitty dates I’ve been on and the curse’s continued humiliation, I still haven’t given up on the dream Linda so clearly defined. Someone to hold in the middle of the night, someone to share a pint of ice cream with while watching a sappy rom-com, someone to hold my fears and insecurities and hopes and dreams so tight to their chest that they become their own. To reciprocate, in every way, to become someone’s other half, to be trusted and valued and depended on.
But with the curse haunting me I’m not sure if it’s worth the risk—not where Linda and Samantha are concerned.
“I’ll think about it.”
chapter four
Succumbing to the Powers of the Curse
After work I hop on the SkyTrain and settle into an hour-long commute to the end of the line in Langley. The press of bodies mixed with the late-spring afternoon heat makes for a sweaty ride, but thankfully I have a spicy audiobook and a gorgeous view of Mount Baker to distract me. From there it’s a quick walk to the basement suite I’m renting, the exorbitant price of which reflects my proximity to public transportation and not at all its style or square footage. The squat little home is cute, in a way. Aged white siding, maroon trim, and overgrown purple hydrangeas on either side of the paint-peeled front stairs give it “grandma’s house” vibes.
I climb the steps and knock on the front door. Moments later the door swings inward and out bursts a tiny dog, all lolling tongue and fluffy grey fur. I squat to the manic little animal’s level and receive an onslaught of sloppy kisses, high-pitched whining, and excited piddling. Thankfully, my upstairs neighbour-slash-landlady, Patricia, is prepared with aroll of paper towel. She unceremoniously drops a folded wad onto the first puddle and steps on it with her slippered foot to absorb the mess. “He missed you,” the older white woman says, her voice a bit unsteady due to the early stages of Parkinson’s.
“Oh yes, you’re a good boy! Did you miss me, Winston? Did you?” I ruffle the little Shih Tzu’s fur, my day already ten times better now that we’re reunited.
Patricia drops more paper towel onto the next puddle. “He had a good day today. Took his pill like a champ. Bit of cheese always helps—he likes the Havarti better than Swiss. He was wonderful on his walk. I got my steps in and he peed on everything. At least we know his prostate is good. He behaved at the dog park until he saw that prissy poodle he doesn’t like, and I had to get him out of there before he started a riot with the other dogs. Managed to steal a ball away from a collie, which I thought was impressive, given his advanced age—”
Patricia continues, recounting every moment of their day together without a detail spared. By the time she comes to her conclusion involving a shared meal and a nap on the couch while watchingDays of Our Lives, the little dog has settled enough for me to pick him up.
“Thank you so much for watching him, Pat,” I say, holding him just far enough away from my face to evade his quick little tongue. My face, I’m sure, smells like doggy gingivitis.
Pat waves a dismissive hand, the collection of brightly coloured jewellery around her neck and arms jingling as she does. “Always a pleasure, isn’t that right, Sir Winston Churchill? Do we keep each other company? Do we?”
The dog wriggles in my grasp, trying to get back to Pat, but I hold him firm. “How was your physio appointment?”
Pat shrugs noncommittally. “I’m doing just fine. The swimming is helping. Easier on the old joints, you know.”
“Okay, well, if he becomes too much trouble for you, just let me know, and—”
Pat dismisses me with a wave of her hand and another jingle of jewellery. “Pish posh. This little guy’s the only thing that makes getting out of bed worthwhile. Keeps me going.”
“He’s lucky to have you.”
“He’s lucky to have both of us,” Pat corrects.
I give her a smile. As much as I’d like to stand here talking to the only friend I’ve made since moving in, I have leftovers to microwave and an old movie to rewatch. “Let me know if you’re running low on food or paper towels and I’ll restock you.”
Pat nods. “Will do. And don’t forget to get the lamb for him. Chicken gives him gas.” She turns her attention back to the dog. “We have that in common.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to stop from laughing. “Okay, we’ll see you tomorrow, Pat. Say goodbye, Winston.” Much to Pat’s delight, I take his little paw and give her a wave with it. Then, I turn and walk back down the steps and around the side of the house, balancing the dog on my hip while I unlatch the gate and step into the backyard. The cracked concrete walkway hugs the house on my left, with a mixture of overgrown grass, weeds, and wildflowers crowding me to my right. Pat doesn’t want to trim it, because bees, so we let it grow wild. I don’t mind.
The backyard is a postage stamp of a thing, the foliage a mix of crabgrass, clover, and dandelion with untrimmed bushes and one maple tree. There’s enough room back here for an old fountain that hasn’t worked since the eighties, a wooden bench with moss growing down the back of it, and various gifts from Winston I haven’t cleaned up yet.
I’m so glad Pat is a dog lover; it’s hard to find a rental within walking distance of the SkyTrainanda yard. Unfortunately, that’s pretty much the only thing this place has going for it.
I unlock the door and hip-check it open. The eucalyptus airfreshener I use to try to cover up the smell of old house is barely working, so I leave the door open to air it out and walk down the steps into my suite. Winston nearly jumps out of my grasp when he spots his favourite toy, a raggedy Bugs Bunny stuffed animal that came with him from the shelter. It’s all he has left from the family who dropped him off when they discovered he had kidney problems and would need medication for the rest of his life.
“Easy, Winston,” I say, lifting him to eye level. “You’re not ten anymore. Don’t break a hip.” I carefully set him on the floor so he can claim his prize and favourite spot on the couch.
