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I ring his doorbell and take a deep breath, scraping my confidence off the ground.
“Hey,” he says when he answers. “Come on in. I was just making dinner.”
The scent of freshly grilled steak fills the air.
“For you or for Domino?” I ask.
“Both,” he says. “You hungry?”
“I already ate …” I leave out the fact that I spent the entirety of the afternoon stress-eating Oreos and baked Lays as I contemplated how this was going to go.
All weekend, I debated sending him a message blaming my confession on the wine and attempting to play it off, but every rough draft was cringier than the one before so I let it go.
“Hey, buddy.” I crouch down when I find Domino, and I scratch behind his ears. “Are you ready to go home?”
Ida snagged a flight home today, and I promised I’d swing by and get Domino before picking her up from the airport.
“Were you good for Stone?” I ask.
He wags his tail.
“He was great,” Stone says as we head to the kitchen. “Almost makes me want to get a dog myself.”
“Really?”
“I said almost.”
“You ready?” I say to Dom. From the corner of my eye, I spot his toys and bed and leash.
“At least let him finish his steak.” Stone stabs a sirloin with a fork before slicing it into manageable pieces and placing it in Domino’s food bowl with a small handful of dry kibble.
“He’ll eat his kibble for you?”
“As long as I mix it with the steak.”
“That’s brilliant. I don’t know why I didn’t think of that.”
“The trick is, you have to make the kibble appetizing first,” Stone says. “Then once he starts eating it, he thinks it’s his idea.”
“Good to know,” I say, although I doubt I’ll be in charge of watching Domino again anytime soon. I wait for him to finish scarfing down his kibble and steak before collecting his things. “We should get going.”
“I met Jason today,” Stone says.
“My Jason?” I ask, though he isn’t my Jason anymore. And if I’m being honest, he never was mine to begin with. He was nothing more than an opportunist who saw a golden goose. “Are you representing him?”
“No.” Stone’s voice is firm and his gaze is so intense it anchors me into place. “In fact, after reviewing his case, I told him we wouldn’t be able to offer him representation.”
“Thank you,” I say.
“I have to ask … what did you see in that tool anyway?”
Thinking back to the Jason I first met is as painful as it is bittersweet. Painful because in hindsight I can see what a fool I was. Bittersweet because for a brief moment I thought that what we had was special … and real.
“A wise man once told me dwelling on the past has never done a damn bit of good for anyone,” I feed him his own words.
“Sage advice,” he says.
I check my watch. “We should head out. Ida’s flight lands in thirty minutes.”
Stone hooks Domino’s leash onto his collar and walks us to my car, helping me load up.
“He liked indie movies,” I say.
“Beg your pardon.”
“Jason … I met him at a Sunday matinee showing of Hope Has Two Faces. We were the only ones in the entire theater … he was sitting behind me.” I drag in a breath of humid summer air. “After about thirty minutes, he leaned in, tapped me on the shoulder, and asked if the movie was terrible or if it was just him. I told him it wasn’t him. We ended up walking out and grabbing a drink down the street at this little bar.”
I open the rear passenger door. Domino jumps in.
“He was nice,” I say. “In the beginning. He liked independent films and Wilco. And in some ways, he reminded me of you.”
“After meeting him today, I don’t know whether I should be flattered or offended by that.”
I laugh. “I meant for that to be a compliment.”
“I’m still not convinced that it is …”
“He reminded me of all the things I liked about you.” I swat at his arm. “Anyway … thanks again for taking him in. And I guess I’ll see you around?”
He takes a step back, stopping at the curb, his hands in his pockets and his gaze homed in on me. Something about this moment feels finite and complete, yet at the same time, there’s an ache in my chest. A homesickness of sorts. Like the way I always felt as a kid when we’d leave my grandparents’ farm in upstate Maine; like I was leaving behind a piece of myself.
“Who’s handling your case?” Stone asks before I climb into my car. “Your divorce.”
“Ben Majors. Why?”
“Fire him,” he says.
“Why?”
“If Jason shops hard enough, he’ll eventually land a shark. I want to make sure you’re represented by someone who can handle that.”
“And who would that be … you?” I ask.
