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Relief is short-lived when I realize I don’t know where I am. A glance around has my gaze landing on the nightstand where I find what looks to be a handwritten note. I’m no expert, but I’ve seen enough masculine lettering in my years to recognize it. I start to panic, despite the bold first sentence on the paper informing me not to.
As I read it, I can’t help the smile that crosses my face. As well as the yearning to meet this person in the light of day minus the alcohol I’d been consuming. I’d been trying to escape reality, though, hence the overindulgence. I should’ve known better. It’s still there in the morning, but it brings along its friend, the hangover. That bitch.
According to it, the drawer contains an unopened container of pain reliever and a sealed water bottle, with no discernible leaks. I shouldn’t trust that he’s being truthful as to the safety of either, but the fact he left them to begin with leads me to do so. and that my clothes are intact minus the hoodie I now recall spilling some of my last drink on, leads me to do so.
He goes on to assure me that all he did was let me use his spare room as my cell was devoid of contacts, aside from Nora, and he didn’t want me to be alone in case there was trouble.
Speaking of my phone, where is it? Just as that worry hits, my eyes skim the next line which lets me know he placed it on the table and includes a warning that I could’ve knocked it to the floor at some point. Sure enough, he’s right.
It ends with information on where the bathroom is, that there are clean towels inside if I’d like a shower or to wash my face, my hoodie should be finished drying by the time I’m awake, and where I can find it. Also, that while Sweetville doesn’t offer a ride service, it’s small enough that everything is pretty much in walking distance.
However, if I’m not uncomfortable with doing so, I’m more than welcome to wait until he returns with breakfast for us and he’ll take me wherever I need to go. There’s also a postscript with the password for his WIFI, the login for his Netflix account, and him telling me that his dog, Enzo, loves attention.
There’s a bold, cursive C at the bottom, lending me to wonder if it stands for Curtis. And hoping it does.
When I set it down, a tear falls on it, quickly followed by a second and third. I move it, not wanting to destroy it with my crying.
Why?
It’s evidence of how sweet people can be just for the sake of it. This stranger, this absolute gentleman, paid more attention to me, took better care of me, in the few hours he’s known me than my own family has in twenty-six years.
And that, more than anything, has me hurrying from the bed, using the bathroom, grabbing my stuff, including my now clean hoodie exactly where he said it would be, and make my way toward the exit. I see the aforementioned Enzo, a gorgeous beagle, sitting there as if he was expecting me, tail thumping happily against the wood floor. Unable to resist – I’m a sucker for animals – I slowly hold my hand out, giving him time to decide if he wants to accept the ear rub I desperately want to give him. He inches forward, apparently done waiting on me to deliver, and scoots under my palm. I’m already in love with him, and he knows it. I’m not sure who is sweeter, him or his dad.
I lavish affection on him, years of it built up because my parents refused to let me have a pet, even a fish, and Enzo soaks it all in.
He’s clearly starved for attention; I try to reason with my subconscious as it’s snorting at me in disbelief.
Yeah. The toys strewn about, the fluffy dog bed in the corner, and the jar of treats on the counter are proof he’s suffering from neglect.
So, what you’re saying is, you agree?
No. Not at all. Wait. Are you humming to shut me out?
The least I can do to thank Curtis for his kindness is to return the favor by giving his dog a bathroom break. I mean, I’ve never had one, but even I know they can only hold it so long and I don’t know when he’ll be back.
He said he was getting breakfast, remember? In a town this size, it’ll take what, thirty minutes?
Perhaps my being here upset their routine. “Enzo, you wanna go for a walk?” When he runs for the door and tugs on the leash hanging from the hook by it, almost prancing in place and I swear smiling, I take it as a sign I’m doing the right thing.
In my short time here, I’ve learned that everyone is always willing to help a fellow resident, so that’s what I’m doing. Earning my place by extending the same curtesy.
I’m definitely not using it as an excuse to see Curtis again. Nor do I take a picture of his current schedule where it sits next to the glass jar.
**Curtis**
Bag of breakfast goodies from Ella’s Eats in hand, I walk in, surprised Enzo doesn’t greet me. I haven’t been gone but half an hour, though in his opinion that’s forever, and he’s usually eager to see me. Sometimes not even letting me shut the door before he’s wiggling his butt, wanting to inspect me for the smell of other dogs. Like I’d ever cheat on my boy.
Getting him shortly after I made the move here might’ve gone a long way in helping me recover as I did. Just seeing him makes me smile and I feel bad I don’t get to spend as much time with him as I should or want to. I could hire a neighborhood kid as a dog walker, giving Enzo more play time. Something to think about.
Being Dec’s right-hand at the pub, my days are almost as long as his, if not more so here and there. We aren’t open for lunch, not wanting to compete with his mom, the owner of Ella’s Eats, who is, so we start around the time she’s closing.
That allows people who have to take theirs later the chance to sit down and enjoy it. Seeing as how we also serve dinner, that entails prep work in the form of menus, ensuring the cooks have the ingredients they need, dealing with the schedules, etc. My shift can easily start at noon and end around two am on the weekends. Since I live close, I’m able to slip out and check on Enzo, but there are evenings that’s not possible when we’re swamped and down a person. It’s happened. And I feel guilty for it. Thank goodness the majority of my nights aren’t that way. During the week, we close no later than eleven, sooner if the place is dead.
It’s my habit to peek up when the door opens, allowing me to prepare their drink if they’re a regular that always orders the same thing, so I spotted Nora as soon as she’d walked in. I gave her a non-committal nod, knowing she wasn’t offended as she’s used to that type of response from me. The woman beside her, however? Even if she hadn’t been with my boss’ wife, I would’ve locked on to her immediately. She brightened the dimly lit atmosphere the pub was known for, and not because of her fiery red hair, though it added to her overall…sparkle.
I search for Enzo and my houseguest, calling out that I brought food, disappointed when I don’t come upon either. Her absence is explainable, even understandable, yet I was hoping to talk to her without the chaos from last night. Enzo, however, is not. My brain has a theory, which I don’t want to believe, but it’s the only plausible one I can come up with.
Retracing my steps, I notice what I missed earlier. His leash is gone. Another glance finds his dog treat jar not as stocked as it was when I left. I know that sounds anal, but it’d been so full that the lid wouldn’t close properly. That’s not the case now.
