wrapped his arm around my shoulder and he pulled me to his side as we stared up at the sky and huddled against the cold of the night.
Oliver
I put Delaney in the cab and watched it drive down the street, and I wondered what I was still doing there without her.
Ten
Oliver
I was coming off of three twelve-hour shifts when Delaney flung open her apartment door, her face blotchy and tear-stained as she took quick, shallow breaths.
“God, what happened?” I asked.
“It’s Jenny. I can’t find Jenny,” she said. “I went down to get the mail, and I guess I didn’t close the door entirely, because she fo llowed me down, and when someone opened the front door, she darted out. She’s gone.” She started to cry big, heaving sobs, and then she reached for me.
I patted her back and smoothed out her hair, talking in the same soothing tone I used for mothers who brought in toddlers with f evers or rashes or bruises. “It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not !”
“It is. First we’re going to walk around the neighbo rhood with a bunch of dog treats and call for her.”
“I tried that!”
“Then we’re going to post flyers. We’re going to knock on all the doors in the neighborhood. We’re going to call the animal shelters and make sure she wasn’t picked up by one of them.”
“But she could be lying dead in a gutter! And it’s my fault!” She started sobbing again and clutched at me, hard, and I tried not to f ocus on how good it felt to have her in my arms.
“It’s not your fault. I promise we’ll find her.”
“How can you keep a promise like that?” she said, pulling away to look into my face for the first time. Her swollen eyes and lips made me swallow and step away from her, feeling wrung out.
“Because you want her to, so she’ll come back. She’s going to come back to you. Okay?”
“I don’t think it works that way, Oliver,” she said with a hoarse voice, but she followed me into my apartment as I put down my bag, and we sat down at my laptop to make a flyer together.
Delaney
Oliver walked around the neighborhood, calling for Jenny as I posted the flyers I’d made with the only photo I had of her, from my phone, on the day I adopted her. In the picture, she was scruffy, one ear flopping up, the other down, her head tilted, her eyes confused.
I teared up just looking at it, as I stapled it to a telephone pole. I even got the sniffles thinking about the accidents she’d had and the corners of my coffee table she was damaging with teeth marks. Everything about her was filled with vignette edges and nostalgia, like my own personal Instagram of sorrow.
“No luck,” Oliver said, his shoulders sagging.
“I know,” I said. “I didn’t expect much.”
“You never expect much.”
“So?” I said too sharply. “There’s nothing wrong with low expectations!”
“There’s nothing wrong with hope. There’s a whole lot wrong with low expectations,” he said, and then he yanked on my ponytail like he was the one who was frustrated with an idiot, not vice versa. Idiot. “Let’s go knock on some doors,” he said, and I shook my head.
“I don’t want to.”
“But someone could have her in their house! She could be sitting there, waiting for you.”
“I just—” I swallowed, thinking of approaching all of those strangers, and them snubbing me before I even got to ask about Jenny. They’d ne ver talk to me. I shook my head. I hadn’t even had the chance to put on real clothes, and my legs were showing their full glory. “I don’t like talking to strangers.”
Oliver tugged on my arm. “I’ll do the talking. You’ll just come with me. Come on. For Jenny.”
“Okay,” I said in a quiet voice, and went with him, my eyes focusing on the sidewalk instead of straight ahead.
Jenny was at the second house we knocked at, sitting in the backyard, suspiciously watching squirrels in the trees with a bowl of water by her. I snuggled her under my chin on our walk back,
Oliver
I put Delaney in the cab and watched it drive down the street, and I wondered what I was still doing there without her.
Ten
Oliver
I was coming off of three twelve-hour shifts when Delaney flung open her apartment door, her face blotchy and tear-stained as she took quick, shallow breaths.
“God, what happened?” I asked.
“It’s Jenny. I can’t find Jenny,” she said. “I went down to get the mail, and I guess I didn’t close the door entirely, because she fo llowed me down, and when someone opened the front door, she darted out. She’s gone.” She started to cry big, heaving sobs, and then she reached for me.
I patted her back and smoothed out her hair, talking in the same soothing tone I used for mothers who brought in toddlers with f evers or rashes or bruises. “It’s going to be okay.”
“It’s not !”
“It is. First we’re going to walk around the neighbo rhood with a bunch of dog treats and call for her.”
“I tried that!”
“Then we’re going to post flyers. We’re going to knock on all the doors in the neighborhood. We’re going to call the animal shelters and make sure she wasn’t picked up by one of them.”
“But she could be lying dead in a gutter! And it’s my fault!” She started sobbing again and clutched at me, hard, and I tried not to f ocus on how good it felt to have her in my arms.
“It’s not your fault. I promise we’ll find her.”
“How can you keep a promise like that?” she said, pulling away to look into my face for the first time. Her swollen eyes and lips made me swallow and step away from her, feeling wrung out.
“Because you want her to, so she’ll come back. She’s going to come back to you. Okay?”
“I don’t think it works that way, Oliver,” she said with a hoarse voice, but she followed me into my apartment as I put down my bag, and we sat down at my laptop to make a flyer together.
Delaney
Oliver walked around the neighborhood, calling for Jenny as I posted the flyers I’d made with the only photo I had of her, from my phone, on the day I adopted her. In the picture, she was scruffy, one ear flopping up, the other down, her head tilted, her eyes confused.
I teared up just looking at it, as I stapled it to a telephone pole. I even got the sniffles thinking about the accidents she’d had and the corners of my coffee table she was damaging with teeth marks. Everything about her was filled with vignette edges and nostalgia, like my own personal Instagram of sorrow.
“No luck,” Oliver said, his shoulders sagging.
“I know,” I said. “I didn’t expect much.”
“You never expect much.”
“So?” I said too sharply. “There’s nothing wrong with low expectations!”
“There’s nothing wrong with hope. There’s a whole lot wrong with low expectations,” he said, and then he yanked on my ponytail like he was the one who was frustrated with an idiot, not vice versa. Idiot. “Let’s go knock on some doors,” he said, and I shook my head.
“I don’t want to.”
“But someone could have her in their house! She could be sitting there, waiting for you.”
“I just—” I swallowed, thinking of approaching all of those strangers, and them snubbing me before I even got to ask about Jenny. They’d ne ver talk to me. I shook my head. I hadn’t even had the chance to put on real clothes, and my legs were showing their full glory. “I don’t like talking to strangers.”
Oliver tugged on my arm. “I’ll do the talking. You’ll just come with me. Come on. For Jenny.”
“Okay,” I said in a quiet voice, and went with him, my eyes focusing on the sidewalk instead of straight ahead.
Jenny was at the second house we knocked at, sitting in the backyard, suspiciously watching squirrels in the trees with a bowl of water by her. I snuggled her under my chin on our walk back,
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