Page 79 of Our Chaotic Love Affair

She burst into laughter. It was clear she was feeling the wine. Her laughter made me laugh. I couldn’t remember the last time I laughed. Like really laughed. Her energy was infectious. She had a way of disarming and stripping people down to their basest selves. The people we are when we’re not pretending or allowing stress to weigh us down.

“What about you?” Cleo asked, leaning forward. “What was your first pet?”

“I didn’t have one.”

Her face fell. “What? Never?”

“Never.”

“Not even a goldfish?”

“Not even a goldfish.”

She looked genuinely distressed by this information. “Cash, that’s so sad.”

“Is it?”

“Yes!” She put down her glass and frowned. “You had all that property. All those brothers. You could have had dogs, cats, horses. Anything. What’s the point of being obscenely wealthy if you can’t even get a dog?”

I’d never thought about it that way. “We were busy.”

“Busy.” She said it like I’d just told her I was too busy to breathe. “You were a kid. Kids aren’t supposed to be busy. They’re supposed to have dogs and get in trouble and track mud all over expensive carpets.”

“We had expensive carpets.”

“Did you track mud on them?”

“No. Not me. My brothers did.”

“See? That’s the problem.” She pointed at me accusingly. “You needed a dog. A big messy one who didn’t respect the rules. A dog that you got into trouble with.”

I smiled. “You sound very passionate about this.”

“I am passionate about this. Every kid deserves a dog.” She sat back, arms crossed. “Tell me you at least wanted one. When you were little.”

Had I? I tried to remember. There had been a period—maybe around seven or eight—when one of my friends had gotten a golden retriever puppy, and I’d spent an entire summer visiting just to play with the dog. I’d asked my father about it once. He’d said dogs were too much work, too much mess, too much liability. I’d never asked again.

“I suppose I did,” I admitted. “For a while.”

“And they said no.”

“They said no.”

Cleo’s expression softened. “That sucks.”

“It wasn’t—” I paused. “It was fine. I got over it.”

“Did you, though?” She was studying me. I had the distinct impression that she knew exactly what kind of kid I’d been. The one who learned not to ask for things. The one who learned that wanting was inefficient. I was the one managing my brothers’ wants and a few of them had a lot of wants.

“Why don’t you have a dog now?” I asked, deflecting.

She let me. “Too busy. My apartment doesn’t allow them anyway.”

“You could move.”

“I could,” she agreed. “But I won’t. Not yet, anyway. When I have a dog, I want to do it right. Yard. Time. The whole thing.” She smiled, distant now, like she was seeing something I couldn’t. “When I settle down. Have a family. Then I’ll get my dog. My dog is going to need kids to play with and guard. Someone who’ll throw the ball and paint their nails.”

“Paint the dog’s nails?”