Page 23 of The Snuggle Is Real

Emily is not a stuffed animal kind of person. She, like me, is relatively practical and her apartment is cozy but mostly focused on function. This is a new whimsical side of her I haven’t seen before.

“You are really embracing the fall festival.”

"I’ve been discontent lately. It’s time to stop and smell the pumpkin spice."

“There are worse things,” I concede.

Emily grins. “Why Malcolm, you really have embraced your romantic side.”

That's when Barrel, Winnie and Ian’s dog, finds us. He comes around the kettle corn stand at full speed, leash dragging, ears flying, with Winnie several yards behind yelling, "Barrel, NO!"

Barrel has no intention of listening, clearly.

“Protect the baked goods!” I say, in alarm. “I’ve seen what this dog can do.” I lift the bag up over my head.

Barrel skids to a stop and sits down directly between my feet and Emily’s.

“Sorry,” Winnie pants as she reaches us. “We’re still working on leash training. And not begging.”

Barrel leans his entire body weight against both of our shins, and sighs like a man who has finally come home after a long day at the office. He looks at us pleadingly. If a dog could bat his eyelashes, that’s what Barrel would be doing.

Then he stands up and puts his paw directly on the denim of my jeans.

“And jumping.”

I give Barrel a good vigorous rub behind his ears with my free hand. “No doughnuts for dogs, buddy, I’m sorry.”

“No dogs at rehearsals either,” Winnie says. “I’m trying to wear him out since he’s going to be in his kennel all night.”

“That is generally a good rule,” Emily says. “Trust me, I’ve seen what can happen with pets.”

“MacKay is actually allergic to dogs,” I tell her. “But I can only imagine.”

“Don’t you just love wedding planning?” Winnie says. “That just sounds like so much fun!”

“It’s all about the details,” Emily says.

It is an effective way to not directly answer the question.

Winnie reclaims the leash. "See y'all at the rehearsal tonight!"

She’s dragged away toward a corn dog stand. Emily watches her go, then turns to me. ”That dog one hundred percent found the right person for him. Their energy matches to perfection.”

I could say the same thing about Emily and I.

“True. Sort of like Fred Callahan and a tank of cold water.”

Emily laughs and slips her hand into mine, like it’s totally natural. It doesn’t even feel like she’s doing it for show. More like just…because.

I feel like I’m fucking sixteen years old all over again.

With a better bank account.

Emily’s phone buzzes somewhere between the apple-bobbing barrel (disgusting, not doing it) and the cornhole boards (I dominate). She pulls it out of her back pocket, glances at the screen, and her expression sours.

Her jaw sets. She becomes someone I've seen at a hundred weddings from across a room, calm and cool and completely in charge. "I have to take this," she says. "Two minutes."

It's eleven minutes. I know because I check my watch to time it.