What He Never Knew (What He Doesn't Know, #3)(44)

It was the one that would come home with me that I worried most for.

Even at thirty-seven, I still felt like a child in all ways. I let my laundry pile up to an impressive mountain before I finally broke down to do it. I’d hired a maid to come by and clean my house once every two weeks because I couldn’t be trusted to dust and vacuum correctly. I still drank and smoked like I was in college, and I ate cereal for dinner more times than I would ever admit to anyone who asked.

How the hell was I ever going to take care of a dog?

I frowned as a softer truth settled in under all those excuses, and as I reached the end of the hallway, I was finally able to name that unfamiliar pressure in my chest. It wasn’t that I was scared of being able to take care of a dog, or that I didn’t think I’d be able to handle everything that went along with that care.

It was that I was scared of loving the damn thing.

Everyone I loved had left me in some way — whether by choice or by fate. Sometimes, I’d pushed them away. Sometimes, I’d missed my chance. And sometimes, I’d wasted the years I had with them, so sure I’d have forever, only to realize how much I’d missed out on once they were gone.

The truth was that I fucked up every relationship in my life. I was like Midas, except everything I touched turned to shit.

I was alone because I should have been alone.

That was the one lesson life had taught me and I’d learned well.

But all of that worry, all of that truth slipped away like a cloud on a breeze when I locked eyes on the dog in kennel forty-two.

Unlike the other dogs I’d passed, this one didn’t wait for me at the gate, tail wagging and paws scratching at the metal to get to me. Instead, he stayed back in the corner, curled into a ball with his tail limp on the concrete floor.

I glanced at the sheet, where I learned he was actually a she.

She was a pit bull, and her name was Rojo — pronounced ro-ho, like the Spanish word for red. I decided it fit her well as I noted the deep burgundy and chocolate brindle stripes that lined her fur.

When I didn’t move on from her kennel, she looked up at me from where she was resting, her tail flicking a few times before it was still again. I smiled, bending down to her level and placing two fingers through one of the gate holes. Rojo lifted her head at that, looking at me curiously as her tail began to come to life again.

It was like she couldn’t believe I’d stopped at her gate, that I’d found any kind of interest in an old dog like her. At first, she didn’t move at all, and I wondered if she thought I’d disappear just like all the other humans that wandered through here idly each day, picking and choosing who to rescue.

After a moment, Rojo heaved herself up, walking slowly toward me with her tail tentatively wagging. She sniffed my fingers, her snout cold and black, and I reached in farther so I could rub her chin.

“Would you like to meet her?” someone asked.

I glanced up at the smiling volunteer who had stopped at the kennel, a blond, twenty-something kid with braces. His smile was genuine, and without me even answering, he moved forward, unlocking the gate as I stepped back to let it swing open.

Sarah joined us as I knelt down again, this time without any metal barriers between Rojo and my hand. She sniffed it again, and just like before, I rubbed her chin. She closed her hazel eyes in what I swore was an appreciative grin, and then she moved in closer, letting my other hand come up to pet her back.

“Rojo has been with us a very long time,” the volunteer said, and the way he said it made my stomach pinch.

“How long?” Sarah asked from where she stood above me.

The volunteer checked the sheet hanging on the gate, and his face softened as he read the number. “One-hundred-and-seventy-two days.”

I did the math in my head as I turned back to Rojo, who was full on wagging her tail and leaning into me now. Nearly six months she’d been at that shelter, in that kennel.

Alone.

I scratched behind her ear, smiling a little as she let her tongue flop out.

“What’s wrong with her eye?” I asked, noting the cloudy mist that covered the left one.

“It was like that when she came to us,” the kid said. “Owner told us some story about her being born that way, blind in one eye as the runt of her litter, but, if I’m being honest, we’ve always suspected some foul play.”

I swallowed, teeth clenching together at the thought of anyone hurting her.

We were all quiet for moment, me petting Rojo as Sarah and the volunteer watched from above. I noticed the curious way he took in Sarah, and then me, like he was trying to put the pieces together.

Clearly, we weren’t related.

“She still has great vision through her other eye, though,” he continued, seeming to shake off whatever questions he had about mine and Sarah’s relation as he bent down to pet the dog with me. “And she had two healthy litters of puppies before she was brought in to us. We spayed her, of course, once she was in our care.” He paused, smiling when Rojo tilted her head into his touch. “She loves chewing on bones and cuddling, and though she walks slow, she seems to really enjoy getting out and laying in the sunshine. Not much of a fetcher, but I imagine she probably enjoyed it when she was younger.” He shrugged. “I guess what I’m saying is that she’s seen a lot in her life, regardless of that eye.”

“How old is she?”