Take Your Time (Boston Love #4)(60)
I soon discover that Fenway is something of a celebrity. Everyone we meet wants to know how old he is (I have no idea, so I say ten weeks at random, which seems to satisfy those asking) his breed (an Irish Something?) and, of course, his name. (Finally, something I actually know!)
He soaks up the attention with glee, wagging his tail and giving out kisses to small children like a tiny four-pawed politician. Between stopping to greet his adoring fans and pausing to pee twice (YAY! YOU WENT ON THE GRASS! WHO’S A GOOD BOY? WHO’S THE BEST BOY IN THE WHOLE WORLD?!) our “quick trip” to the pet shop takes three times longer than I was expecting.
It’s nearly noon by the time we make it back to my apartment, armed with a plush doggie bed, a bag of kibble, training treats, three different toys, and several informative pamphlets about the housebreaking process, which the girl working the counter shoved in my direction after I told her about Fenway’s rather wet wakeup call.
I try not to think about the fact that my meager funds are now even more depleted as I hand over most of the babysitting money I earned last night.
Who knew dogs were so effing expensive?
Seventy dollars poorer, sweating through my sundress, and winded from the walk home, I’m juggling the heavy bag of loot along with Fenway’s leash while digging around in my purse for my keys when the hair on the back of my neck rises. I can’t explain exactly what triggers it, but I’m overcome by the sudden sensation that I’m being watched.
Heart pounding, I whirl around and scan the street, half expecting to see two henchman lurking in the shadows, ready to pounce. Instead, I find my whole block is totally tranquil: the brick awash with summer sunshine, the window boxes bursting with colorful blooms. Fenway looks up at me curiously, probably wondering why I’m so tense.
“If someone gets the jump on us, defend me, okay boy?” I murmur, turning back to my door. “By that, I clearly mean lick them to death. Or pee on them. Since those seem to be the only skills you’ve mastered thus far.”
Once inside, I unearth one of his toys — a soft foam-filled toy shaped like a hippo, which he promptly picks up in his mouth and carries off to chew from the comfort of his new bed. My heart flips as I examine him cuddled up in a red ball of fluff. I’m filled with the unfamiliar urge to lie down beside him so I can watch his every yawn and yip and tail wag from mere inches away.
Dear lord, what is happening to me?
When did I become such a sap?
If I’m this attached to a fur-baby after only twenty-four hours, I’m guessing the future probably doesn’t bode well for me should I ever decide to pop out an actual human baby.
It’s just a puppy, I tell myself. What’s so cute about a puppy?
Oh, right.
Literally everything.
Determined to regain some of my aloof cool-girl aesthetic, I turn my back on Fenway with considerable effort and walk into my bedroom. The day is slipping away rapidly. I have to be at the venue for Phoebe’s rehearsal dinner by three, and I haven’t even begun getting ready.
As if she hears my thoughts, my phone begins to buzz in the bowels of my Mansur Gavriel bucket bag.
“Hello?”
“It’s a disaster. A disaster!” She’s talking a mile a minute. “Remember how two days ago I was zen and chill about this whole getting married to the man of my dreams thing? Yeah, that’s over. The zen has vanished. I officially have no chill.”
“Phee, take a deep breath or you’re going to pass out.”
“I don’t have time to breathe! The flowers are a mess. And by that, I mean the flowers are nonexistent. As in, they did not show up. I called the florist and no one answers, it just rings and rings and rings. And I don’t have time to go over there and fight with the little old lady who owns the place in person, because I have to do my hair and makeup.” She lets out a small scream of frustration. “Plus, my face is all splotchy and I think I have back fat in my rehearsal dress and there’s a twenty-three percent chance of rain for tomorrow which, okay, I know doesn’t actually seem like a lot, but that’s basically a one-in-four chance that it’s going to be awful during the moment I say I do to the man of my dreams, and totally ruin our reception afterward. The very elaborate, very expensive, very outdoor reception that I’ve spent basically my whole life planning, right down to the damn groom. And—”
“PHEOBE!” I yell into the phone before she can list one more thing.
There’s a brief lull in her panicked babble; I capitalized on it.
“Listen to me — everything is going to be just fine. The ceremony itself is inside. So we’re really only talking about the dance floor, right? Last I checked, they have these rad new inventions called tents that, when erected, shield those standing beneath from the elements.”
“But—”
“And,” I cut her off. “A twenty-five percent chance of rain means—”
“Twenty-three,” she corrects lowly.
“Even better. A twenty-three percent chance of rain means there is a seventy-seven percent chance it’ll be gorgeous.”
“But—”
“And speaking of gorgeous, that’s exactly what you are in your rehearsal dress. I’d lie to you about many things, but I would never lie to you about back fat. That I promise you, on my honor as your bridesmaid.”