18.
“Lucinda.” Something hard and gentle shakes me. “Lucinda, it’s me.”
My eyes barely have the strength to open, and I wave the hands off me, pressing my face into my pillow. “No, thank you.”
A chuckle, and then, “Having some good dreams?”
The previous night catches up to me in one swift moment. My eyes blink open, and Anders towers above me on the edge of the bed, his aftershave enveloping me. “Are you okay?” I get on my knees, pressing my hand to his neck, his head a little too out of reach at this angle. His skin is warm, but not at all hot.
He presses my hand in between both of his. “I’m a lot better, I promise.” He smiles. “I think there’s some residual fever in my feet, but that’s about it.”
My cheeks grow hot at the memory of massaging Vicks onto his heels.
“I have to go,” he says while I try to think of what to say. “I would have let you sleep in more, but I didn’t want you to wake up and me be gone.”
“What time is it?” I ask. “Where are you going?”
“A little after seven,” he answers. “Aunt Bethany is helping her farm owners with a horse that got out in the middle of the night. I’m going to bring Olive to her volleyball league for her.”
“What a cool kid,” I say, a yawn escaping me.
“I’ll be a couple hours,” he explains. “Go back to sleep.”
“Okay,” I say, shutting my eyes as if even speaking with him is exhausting. He lays me down, tucks me under the covers, and I wait until I hear the door click shut.
I open one eye, listen for the sound of the front door doing the same, and then I sit up, fully awake, and shove my face into the pillow and
scream.
I slept with Anders.
Not sexually, not with his fever, but in the same bed, pressed against each other, cuddling without moving an inch away. Sleeping together without having sex somehow feels way more intimate.
I sit up. “No, no, it’s not a big deal,” I say aloud, like an insane person.
“I just wanted to be close in case he needed me, and he wanted the same, in case he got sicker. Just being considerate.”
That would be more believable if the whole dry humping on the pool table hadn’t happened, but you know what, that’s already in the past.
Basically, a faded memory. Forgotten as vegetables at the back of the fridge you swore you’d incorporate into your meals.
These are all problems for future me. I’m not going to sit here and replay the events in my head until I’m crazy. Anders isn’t even here to discuss them with, if I knew exactly how to discuss them at all.
I shoot up and get ready for the day, shower, change, lather myself in lotions.
The first part of the morning I spend scrubbing down Anders’s house. I remove his sheets and stuff them in the washer, like it’ll erase the memory of my body on them beside his. I organize his shelves, dusting where I can, wiping down glass, sweeping and mopping as if I’m getting paid extra for it.
By that afternoon, the skin around my nails is almost entirely missing.
Anders is still out—swindled by Olive for an impromptu shopping spree— and my brain is hunting for something to do.
The bridesmaid fitting isn’t till tomorrow, and I’m not getting any hits on the dating app, so I count it as a dead lead. With Anders busy, there’s nothing I need to do at the moment, but every time I sit still, I think of his hands rubbing circles on my back.
I think of him sick with a fever, dealing with his own pain, and still spending his time trying to comfort me, and cannot for the life of me smother the way it makes my heart pound.
I shoot up and go to my room, snatching the business card from Dainese. Instead of sitting around thinking about Anders, wondering how he feels, if we’re just getting lost in the act or if we care about each other, I decide to busy myself with something I love. Something that makes sense when everything else doesn’t.
Without a car, it takes me an hour to walk to the tiny shelter, just at the end of the beach. The humidity has stuck to my skin like a second layer, but when I enter K9 Friends, the air conditioner soothes the gathering of sweat on my skin.
It’s a modest place, tighter than Save a Paw, and the cages holding the animals don’t give them much room to do anything other than stretch their legs. But they’re all painted in blues and yellows—colors dogs can see— and filled with cozy bright blankets and toys, and with thick tablets in each one playing videos of birds chirping through trees. Dog TV.
There’s nobody at the tiny computer desk in the far corner, but I spot a head of pin-straight hair by an open cage.
Dainese is inside, carefully brushing the hair of a tiny Yorkie, humming as she does. She’s smiling, too, and she looks like she loves this dog as much as she loved Sora. A true dog lover, that’s what she thought of me, and I see the same in her, hunched over, soothing after each brush.
It reminds me of the first time I held a stray—after Storm—in my arms and felt, for just a moment, like I was doing something right. Like I mattered. Because if a terrified animal could look at me like I was safety, like I could be trusted, then even at times when I didn’t feel useful to anyone, it meant that someone—even a dog—needed me.
I remain silent until she finishes. She shuts the gate, then yelps when she spots me standing there.
There’s a domino effect from the noise, and a majority of the dogs howl and bark to mirror her worry.
“It’s you.” Dainese’s eyes go wide. “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”
“Lucy.” I hold out a hand. “And should I be offended?”
She shakes it firmly, twice, then lets go. “No, sorry, it’s just. So many people say they will, but life gets in the way a lot.”
“Good thing for you I don’t have a life.”
She laughs, and I can see her shoulders relax. “Wow, come, let’s talk outside until they settle.”
I follow her out, back under the humid, cloudy sky. “I’m Dainese,” she tells me in case I forgot, leading me to a small bench by the front door overlooking the stretch of beach. “My mom, Bibi, owns this place, but she’s always busy helping my sister with her triplets, so it’s usually just me.”
My eyes widen. “God bless your sister.”
“She certainly needs him to.” She whistles.
“How many dogs do you take in?”
“We can fit ten but only have the funds to care for five. There’s another shelter, Fur-Friends Sanctuary, on the opposite side of town, that we
work with when we can, sending them dogs we can’t board. They’re lovely over there.”
“And it’s just you caring for the five?”
“Well, it used to be my mom, my sister, and me, but you know—”
“Triplets,” I supply for her.
“Yeah, newborns too. We usually get college students volunteering for the summer, but this year has been a little sparse. Still, it’s not too bad. Five is manageable.”
“How long have you worked here?” I ask, and I appreciate that there’s no awkwardness between us, no need for small talk. We immediately speak like we’re already friends just having a catch-up.
“Since I was a kid,” she explains. “My dad started this place, and I was always his little shadow. He passed a couple years ago, so my mom has taken over, but she’s not really a hands-on person.” She then asks, “You said you work at a shelter?”
“Yeah, back in New York. Boards about twenty dogs, which is great when you think about saving that many from the streets, but hard to give them all enough attention. Started volunteering when I was a teen.”
“What made you want to?”
“Long story short, the most precious dog I rescued from the street, and I couldn’t move on since.” Short story long, working with dogs gave me something no job or relationship ever did—purpose.
“Ah, there’s always the first.” She gives me a gentle tap. “Well, I won’t beat around the bush. If you’re willing to help, I have two dogs to wash, and three of them are going to need some moral support when the vet techs get here to give them their vaccines. Though, today is a good day— one of them, Shelly, is getting adopted. But that’ll take up some of my time.
I don’t mean to ask for help the first time you visit—”
“I’m in.” I stand. “Use me as much as you can.”
She joins me. “I don’t have any money to offer, but my mom is coming in the afternoon to feed me donuts and matcha, and you’re welcome
to have your fill.”
“Deal.”
The only difference between here and Save a Paw is the space and equipment. Everything here is thoroughly used, from brushes to collars, and there’s not a popular name brand in sight—at least, for the washes and grooming care—but the food is from the most reputable vet-tested brand.
The team here tightens the wallet for smaller things, but food, the most important, doesn’t seem to have a limit.
It’s another thing I love most about this work—not just the dogs, but the people who care about them. The ones who make something out of almost nothing. Who don’t get applause for it but keep showing up anyway.
Save a Paw is my dream; I built it with hopeful hands. A place where I could finally prove—to the world, and to myself—that I’m not a failure.
That I have purpose. That I belong. That I can be a part of something that doesn’t fall apart when life does. While we work, Dainese talks to fill up the space. As someone who was raised with the most talkative human alive (Taina), I’m no stranger to a constant stream of chitchat. I don’t have to nod or grunt or display signs of listening (I am) because Dainese just assumes I’m keeping up.
Even when we move on from my laborious tasks—like trying to wash a hyperactive husky in a closet of a shower—Dainese barely changes tone.
She tells me Sora’s story, of the loving home he had with an elderly couple who passed within weeks of each other, and how the displacement brought him here, and more.
She checks her athletic wristwatch and says, “The couple adopting should be here soon, perfect timing.” She grabs a towel from beneath her desk drawer and tosses it to me. “Then we can eat.”
“Sure,” I say, approaching the Yorkie’s cage. “Good luck, buddy, be good.”
On the door, there is a paper taped up, reading ONE MONTH AT SHELTER.
One month in, and already finding a home. It’s amazing, and I’m so happy for the cutie, but I move to the end of the hall and spot Sora lying on his
side, wide eyes looking up at me.
Six months at the shelter.
If I’m being honest with myself, I know he very likely won’t be getting a new home. Senior dogs already have the least chance of getting adopted, second only to a dog with a disability. Combine them both, and Sora has no chance.
How many times has he lain here and watched another dog leave with a family?
I find Dainese at the desk, typing away. “Can I take Sora for a walk?”
She glances up, her sharp features softening. “I know, I feel bad too.”
She reads my mind. “Go ahead, it’s muggy, but not hot, so he can stay out
longer.”
“I’ll be back,” I promise, and erase the image of running to an airport and bringing Sora to Taina’s place with me.
I grab a stray ball and a harness for Sora and let myself into his cage.
His tail does a single wag, like he smothered his excitement as soon as it built up. I get just one more wag when I wrap the collar around him and gently tug the leash toward the door, making sure I’m in his direct view.
He follows, and I maintain a slow enough pace he doesn’t feel like we’re rushing, but fast enough that he can feel free to be excited. I steal a bottle of water left on the windowsill in case he gets thirsty and head out.
We wander toward the back, descending a small hill leading directly to the sandy shores. It must be the weather, and the late-afternoon weekday, that has this side of the beach empty. Only our feet leave prints on the sand as we walk together.
Sora keeps watching the water, but I can’t tell if it’s with affection or fear. I scan the beach again, making sure we’re truly alone, then unhook his leash. I pop off my shoes, toss them closer to the sand, then jog to the tide.
Sora watches me for a while, letting the cool water surround my feet then disappear. Like a game of double Dutch—hopping in place, waiting for the best moment—Sora waits until the tide pulls back, runs after it, then runs away when it comes for its turn of tag.
I join him, running forward and then away until my chest burns and reminds me the last time I ran a mile was a year ago. I settle for tossing the ball in the shallow water for him while I catch my breath.
When the ball is lost, he simply runs into the water. My heart pounds for a split second, waiting to see if he’s able to swim, but it seems he’s experienced enough, so I drop down and sit on the damp sand, just above the tide line.
I keep glancing up at Sora as I pull out my phone and type in “Mason Maguda”—the name of the man who offered to buy Joshua’s share of Save a Paw.
Information I’m not supposed to have, but Taina knows how to dig, and I asked her to find it.
Unlike me, Mason comes from a long line of animal lovers. His family lives and breathes this stuff. Some are vet techs. Some, emergency surgeons. A couple are dog walkers and groomers. Mason himself owned a
private veterinary practice for years and now, according to his website, wants to dedicate his life to helping as many dogs as possible.
There’s a site called Vet-Vetter, where people post uncensored reviews —nothing filtered, nothing deleted. Every review under his name is glowing. Clients say he goes above and beyond. That there’s no one better.
And here I am, sitting on a beach with sand between my toes, competing against someone who’s actually qualified. A nepo baby with real credentials and multiple degrees directly related to animals.
It sucks. Not because he’s a bad option—because he’s a good one, a great one, actually.
Because even I have to admit—if it can’t be me, he makes sense.
But I love Save a Paw. I know the dogs by name. I know the quirks of our plumbing system and how long it takes the heating to kick in in the back kennels. I forced myself under Joshua’s wing, learned how to run payroll, fix the books, talk to donors, manage inventory—all of it. Not because it came naturally, but because I refused to let the dogs go without what they needed.
Mason may have the resume. But I have the heart.
And yeah, I know that sounds like the kind of thing you say when you don’t have enough credentials to back yourself up. But it’s true. I would die for animals.
If this doesn’t work—if I can’t save Valerie from this wedding disaster —I’ll lose my shot at Save a Paw. I’ll lose the only place that’s ever felt like mine.
Like he heard me thinking of him, Anders’s name appears on my
screen.
I answer on the first ring.
“Hey.”
“Hey,” he says. “Where are you?”
I look at the time, and it’s already four. “Long story, but I’m at a dog
shelter.”
“Dog shelter?” he repeats.
In the background, a loud, young, excited voice echoes, “Dog shelter?” There’s a rustling of movement, and then, Olive has the phone.
“Are you with Sora?”
“Hang on,” I say, FaceTiming her.
She picks up immediately, and I turn the camera to Sora playing in the water. Olive squeals, then snaps, “You said you’d bring me!”
“I still can,” I offer.
“Can we go now?”
“That’s up to your uncle.”
There’s another rustling, and I take the camera off, bring the phone to my ear just as Anders is back on the line. “Will you send me your location?”
“Sure,” I say, then ask, “How are you feeling?”
“Better, thank you for that.”
My cheeks heat at the warmth in his words, and I hang up before I say something like Thank you for existing.
It takes them about twenty minutes to arrive, and when they do, Olive —dressed in the cutest strawberry-print matching set—takes off running toward the sand and promptly face-plants.
Anders immediately scoops her up, inspects her for injury, and murmurs a string of comforting words I can’t quite make out. Whatever he says makes Olive’s slumped shoulders slowly straighten.
The sight tugs at me with a strange mix of nostalgia and loss—feelings that catch me off guard. It shouldn’t hurt, but it does. Watching them together reminds me of Taina and me—of the kind of closeness that fills you with burning warmth.
It’s been a long time since I’ve had someone to comfort, or someone who looked to me like that—for safety, for softness. The absence hollows out my chest.
When they approach me, I plant a smile on my face and remind Olive that Sora is deaf, so she should try to let him see her first.
She agrees, then shoos me off to join him.
Anders approaches soon after, his white shirt rolled at the sleeves so almost every inch of his biceps is revealed. I give him a wave, he returns it with a smile, before standing beside me, overlooking Olive and Sora.
“Olive told me about Sora,” Anders says. “Did you steal him?”
I chuckle, then sigh. “Just letting him out so he doesn’t see another dog get a new family while he sleeps on his own again.”
Anders places a hand on my lower back for comfort, and I lean into him. He moves so that his hand covers the side of my waist, and I’m tucked at his side as we watch the two play.
“Are you a dog person?” I tilt my chin to look up at him. “Or a cat one? Or anti-animal?”
“Not sure,” he answers. “Aunt Bethany always had allergies, so we never had pets. Some of my friends had cats growing up, and I liked when they’d come around while I visited their house. Never really been around a dog.”
“They’re angels,” I explain though he didn’t ask. “They love you no matter what, even if you suck as a human being. It’s why so many dogs get hurt. They’re overly trusting, and it leads to them being attacked, and injured, and still they come back to us.”
His features pinch together as he frowns and squeezes my cheeks.
“You look so upset.”
“A polite way to say rough, because I spent hours showering dogs, and smell like one too. Sorry to your shirt, you’re going to reek in a minute.”
He presses a kiss on my matted hair in answer, and it makes my stomach do a tiny dance.
“I’m sad to bring him back,” I tell him. “That’s the worst part of working with dogs. You can’t take them all in, but you want to.”
“How do you manage it?” he asks.
“Lots of crying, and wine, and more crying. Sometimes I sleep in the cages overnight. It’s very dramatic.”
He turns us, his hands entirely around my waist as he leans down to me. “You’re an incredibly empathetic person.”
My hands slip up his chest. “So are you.”
He smiles, and moves closer, as if to press a kiss to my lips. I jerk back, fanning myself like the heat has suddenly become unbearable.
Since we met, it feels like my brain and heart have been playing this game of fact or fiction whenever we touch, or steal a glance, or speak. Is it real? Is he playing it up for an audience? Are we just getting lost in the act?
Is he genuinely just charming, albeit dangerously flirtatious?
But I already know it’s real—that’s what makes it harder.
He’s not playing anything up for an audience. He’s genuine. Honest in a way that feels rare. He is a good man.
One who may be easy to take advantage of. And I’m not a good enough person to stop from grabbing his hand. “Remember our night playing pool?”
He coughs, then glances over my shoulder, back to me. “Yes, but maybe we should talk about that another time.”
My cheeks heat as I shake my head. “No, not that part. The part when I scammed you and you bet a wish.”
“Oh, yes.” Then, again, I swear he can read my mind. He says, “Lucinda, I’ve never owned a dog before. I have no idea what I’m doing.”
“I could help you”—I squeeze his hand—“and it’d be so much fun.
You’ll have a little running buddy. And company, so you’ll never be lonely.
And Sora is such a sweet thing. Dainese says he never barks, even when all the other dogs are getting rowdy. He’s potty trained, and he only eats twice a day. He’s deaf, so you have to make sure he sees you before you touch him, but he won’t get violent, you just don’t want to scare him.”
“Lucinda.” He removes his hands from mine and grips my cheeks.
“Breathe.”
“Can you promise to at least think about it?” I beg. “I can answer any
questions you have while you do.”
“I—”
Olive barrels into us, Sora close behind.
“Look,” she says, jumping in front of Sora and tracing a circle with her pointer finger. Immediately, Sora plops down into a roll. Olive claps her hands. “He’s so cute, how does he know to do that?”
I lean down, hold out my hand. Sora places his paw in it, letting me shake. Olive makes a delighted sound.
Sora moves from me, then circles the new face, his nose sniffing around Anders before rubbing his snout on the end of his jeans, then plopping down to lie beside him with a sigh.
Anders and I meet each other’s gazes, his eyes wide and soft in a way I didn’t have to manipulate. He leans down, lets Sora see his palm before giving him a head rub. Sora nuzzles into him, grateful, licking Anders’s hand in thanks.
Olive rushes back toward the water in search of a lost flip-flop, and Anders continues to pet Sora. I sneakily snap a photo of the pair with plans to use it as ammo later.
He catches me, and sighs. “Is anyone interested in him?”
My heart races off. “Nobody. He’s old and deaf, and nobody ever takes him out for walks,” I say, though that last part is pulled right from my ass because I’m not sure it’s true.
But Anders pouts, gives Sora another rub. “I travel so often—”
“There are plenty of dog-sitters,” I say, gesturing to Olive in the shallow end, “and one willing preteen.”
“Aunt Bethany would kill me if I brought a dog for a sleepover.”
“We can stuff her with allergy pills.”
He stands, and as if Sora’s own heart is drawn to the hope, too, he follows Anders over to me. “I’ll think about it,” he says. I smile widely, and Anders holds up a finger. “I said think, Lucinda.”
I hold up my hands. “I didn’t say anything.”
He taps the side of his head. “I heard it just the same.”
“Well, can you hear this?” I ask, then lean over and press a kiss on his cheek.
But as I pull back, he grabs my arm—gently, but purposefully—and draws me back in. His lips land on mine, direct and certain, like this is something we do, like he’s done it one hundred times, and he could land his lips on mine without having to aim.
For a second, I’m frozen. Everything about this feels startlingly real.
Him. And me. And this.
His mouth is warm. Familiar, somehow, like my many dreams and fantasies about the feel of his mouth on mine were memories instead of hopeless fabrications.
When he pulls back, I’m still blinking, heart stuttering. Then Sora yawns loudly and settles beside Anders, curling up directly on his shoes.
Distracted, Anders looks down, sympathy pooling over his features, and he meets my gaze again. “I have a dog now, don’t I?”
I hear what he says, but it feels like he’s just reached into my chest and peeled the rib cage apart, grabbed hold of my heart and said, I own this now.
