Oliver and I set off down Commonwealth Avenue, headed for Boston Common. I’ve got him trained well enough that I can let him off-leash to chase squirrels if there aren’t any police officers around.
As we get to the gates of the Public Garden, he realizes our destination and begins to practically prance down the path, his front paws high-stepping, his tail wagging. And despite myself, I smile at his display of exuberance and joy.
We’re just passing the swan boat pond when I see her.
She’s sitting on one of the benches, shaded by a tree with blazing red leaves. She’s wearing a gray pea coat, her blond wavy hair cascading around her shoulders from beneath a red wooly hat. She has a book open on her lap. Her cheeks are rosy from the cool breeze, and she looks just as lovely as I remember her.
My body floods with warmth at the sight of her, then immediately goes cold. Because I know that she absolutely does not want to see me.
She’s made that clear.
But I also want to see her, and so I pause in the path, knowing I have a few moments to imprint this memory before I have to start walking in the other direction. And as I watch her read in the autumn afternoon, pretty as one of her paintings, I curse myself for the millionth time for hurting her.
It’s the first time I’ve seen her since I walked out of the house to go to the hospital after my father’s death, and the sight of her takes my breath away.
And that’s when, in his excitement over our destination, Oliver suddenly pulls free from the leash and takes off.
“Oliver! No!” I shout as he bounds down the path.
At the sound of my voice – or maybe not my voice, but a voice – she looks up from her book. My attention darts from her to my dog, who I’m worried is going to run straight through the Garden and into the traffic whizzing down Charles Street.
But her attention on me must distract him, or maybe it’s just my shouting, because he slows, and then begins to veer straight for her.
“Oliver!” I shout again, but it’s too late. He attempts to skid to a stop in front of her, but the wet leaves send him sliding right into her knees. At the last second he leaps up, his front paws landing firmly on her lap (and her book).
“Oh!” she cries, and quickly grabs Oliver by the collar. She turns to me, a triumphant smile on her face. “Got him!”
The sight of that smile tears my heart in two. It was only hanging on by a thread anyway, but now it’s officially ripped in half.
I move towards her, trying, yet again, not to show the pain I’m feeling inside. “Thanks for catching my escaped convict. I need to get him back to the big house, pronto.” I bend down and pick up Oliver’s leash, winding it around the palm of my hand and gripping it tightly so he can’t escape again. He looks up at me, his paws still resting comfortably in Cadence’s lap, grinning up at me with his tongue lolling.
When I look up at her again, her smile has waned a little, and she’s shifting uncomfortably on the bench, as if the reality of this moment is just hitting her. I give the leash a tug and pull Oliver out of her lap. “Excuse Oliver’s manners. He’s a bit of a social butterfly.”
“It’s ok.” She gives Oliver a good double scratch behind his ears, seeming to focus all her attention on him so she won’t have to actually pay any attention to me. “You got a dog?”
“Yeah. A few months ago,” I say, purposefully vague so she doesn’t make the connection between her leaving and Oliver coming into my life. Lord knows Julia harangued me for it from here to Providence and back again. You can’t just replace someone with an animal, Levi. Dogs are a lot of work. They’re not therapy. It’s like adopting a child. You don’t do it on a whim or in a fit of depression. And on and on and on. And she wasn’t wrong, but four months in and Oliver is basically the only thing that’s gotten me out of the bed in the morning.
That and the new firm.
I’d say he was more than therapy. He’s become a true friend.
“I’m surprised you have time for a dog, what with your schedule,” she says, and I’m reminded that she knows my schedule all too well, as she was, for a moment, my assistant on top of everything else.
“Well, things are a little different these days,” I reply with a shrug. I’m careful not to say too much, in case she’s looking for a quick exit from this conversation. I don’t want to burden her, force her when she wants out.
“Oh?”
I pause, wondering if she’s just being polite. “It’s a bit of a long story,” I say finally.
And then, to my complete and utter shock, she scoots over on the bench, patting the empty spot next to her. “Why don’t you take a seat and tell me about it?”