“Yeah,” I said, pointing to the throwing stick, “and I can’t even blame it on anything.”
The guy took a few steps, shook the branches of the tree, and the ball fell to the grass.
“I take it you’re not into softball.” The guy threw the ball for Baxter, sending him streaking across the grass.
“Nope,” I said. “I’m into other things. Like jiu-jitsu.”
Sebastian had taken years of jiu-jitsu classes, mostly with former college wrestlers who wanted to continue hand-to-hand fighting with the martial art, a skill Sebastian very much wanted to learn.
I had no idea why I had blurted that out, except that I thought it would be funny. I was becoming more and more bold. The latest social media wave about Superdog just made me more so. I was loving the attention and so was my business. I’d received calls and emails from over ten countries, and the orders for the collars and leashes increased, along with requests to style dogs (or people with their dogs).
The guy’s brown eyes widened a bit, apparently impressed. I liked the combination of a blond with brown eyes.
“Do you know jiu-jitz?” I asked. “Jiu-jitz” was what the devotees called it.
“Sure, I know it.” He was definitely impressed.
“I trained with the Gracies.” The Gracies were Brazilian brothers with whom Sebastian had trained.
“Wow. Seriously?”
“No,” I said, finally.
We both laughed.
Baxter ran back to the guy and dropped the ball at his feet.
“Smart dog,” he said.
The guy threw the ball far across the park, and we watched Baxter retrieve it. When he brought it back, he sat at the man’s feet for a minute, panting.
A college-aged guy walked along the sidewalk near us, a friend of his trailing behind, immersed in his phone. “That looks like Superdog,” he said.
“It is Superdog,” I said.
“Shut up!” The guy turned and called over his shoulder. “Frank, check this out! It’s Superdog.”
The two of them began petting Baxter, who obliged by licking their ears and eventually turned over and allowed his belly to be scratched.
The blond man was still standing there. “I heard about that Superdog video,” he said.
I told him briefly about my experience of it. “It’s been a weird ride,” I said.
“That’s cool,” the blond said. He reached his hand out. “Gavin.”
I shook it. “Jessica.” I nodded at Baxter who was reveling in the attention from the college kids. “His real name is Baxter.”
“Baxter,” Gavin repeated. “Good name. How did you pick it?”
“My ex worked with someone with the name Baxter, and I liked it.”
I didn’t tell him that at the time we named Baxter, I was also hoping that by agreeing to the name I would soon meet Bill Baxter, the photographer Sebastian had long traveled with.
When Baxter came into our lives, the puppy gave us steam, rolled Sebastian and I through another year together, allowed my anger about not being let into his life simmer, allowed him to believe for a while that we could go on like that and I wouldn’t need to ask about his job again. But steam dissipates—it fades. What remained was my disappointment, his inability to share. We were both sad. We had both reached the limits of being patient with a life that wasn’t what we had hoped for or to the standards we set for ourselves.
But when Sebastian assumed he would get custody of Baxter, I was entirely alone in my emotions—shock and hurt. Admittedly, it had been Sebastian who had introduced the idea of a dog, a project we could share together, while I merely went with his desire because I wanted to give us another shot. But did that mean he got the dog?
I remembered the night vividly. We were at dinner again, picking over details of our divorce. The restaurant, Kamehachi, was in Old Town, usually a scenic stroll from our Gold Coast condo in any season. But it had dumped rain that Friday night, giving the streets an eerie-dark, postmodern look.
We’d been frequenting our favorite Chicago restaurants—Girl & the Goat, RL, Hugo’s Frog Bar, Telegraph. We knew we were breaking up, but it was as if we were still debating the pros and cons, and I guess we thought the happy places where we’d eaten in the past would either (a) deliver some of that old magic and turn us around, or (b) at least make breaking up a tiny bit pleasant, therefore making us both agreeable.
By that night, it seemed we knew that we were 99 percent done. Still, we fell into an argument (rewind Volume II, The Fights of Sebastian and Jess). After that, we went silent for a long time, save for the soft clacking of enamel chopsticks. We dunked dumplings in thin broth, swirled green wasabi into soy.
And then, in really amicable tones, we somehow started negotiating the bulk of our split.
“I would want you to have most of the furnishings,” Sebastian said. “Because you’ll keep the condo.”
I appreciated the offer as much as the assumption that I would stay in the condo. Sebastian, as a native of Chicago, could stay with his mother or a host of buddies before buying or renting a place in one of the many neighborhoods he already knew.
“You should take all the kitchen gear,” I said.
When we got married, we didn’t register for much, but those things we did sign up for—the pasta maker, the food processor, the knife sharpener—those were all for Sebastian.
So went that night. Trying to act like it was all oh so normal, we went back and forth—you take that, I’ll take this. To smooth the discussion, we ordered a bottle of sake. And somewhere, somehow, we found a little ease (although ease itself was tough because it inevitably led my mind back to the possibility that we should stay together, ignoring all the things that wouldn’t, or couldn’t change).
“Hey,” Sebastian said at one point, tipping a little more sake into my glass, “I’ll be a real gentleman, and I’ll give you the llama.” We laughed. The llama had been a gift from a source for a story Sebastian had met in Chile. Made of colored straw, the thing was odd, over a foot tall. Sebastian had become close to this source, who’d been injured while attempting to get Sebastian information, and so he couldn’t bear to throw it away. But where to put it? We’d tried the bathroom, but it loomed over the sink, as if about to drink from a small pond. Neither of us could handle it in the bedroom where its red straw took on an evil glint in low light. Eventually the thing migrated to a corner of the small den off the bedroom where, sometimes, Baxter liked to knock the llama onto its side and take naps with it.
“I don’t want that llama!” I’d said. More laughing, more sake. I picked up a dragon roll, thinking, It could be like this. It doesn’t have to be all bad, all pain.
“Fine, fine,” Sebastian said. He gave an exaggerated sigh, as if caving in on some big point. “Since I’m keeping Baxy, and he’s the only one who likes the llama, I’ll take it off your hands.”
I plunked my chopsticks on the table. Unfortunately, I’d just placed a large roll in my mouth. Could they not make these things smaller or cut them in half? I held my hand over my mouth and chewed as fast as possible, all the while trying to prevent eel and avocado from falling on my chin. By the time I was done, Sebastian was onto another topic, in mid-speech about our joint office and how, of course, he’d take his desk and I, mine. “And that chair in the bedroom,” he was saying, “it was Mom’s originally, so I’ll grab that. The rest is yours.”
Sebastian had a pinkish glow on his high cheekbones, above the barely there, dark stubble that lately was a permanent fixture on his face. The glow, I knew, meant a slight buzz and, definitely, happiness. But I wasn’t sharing the emotion.
“You are not keeping Baxter!” I said. Loud.
Sebastian blinked as if he was a little surprised.
“Baxter is my dog, too!” I said. The thought of no Baxter
in my life, along with no Sebastian, drew tears.
“Hey,” Sebastian said. He scooted his chair to mine, awkwardly patting my blond hair. We no longer knew how to touch each other.
“I know you love Baxter,” Sebastian said.
I pulled my head away from his touch. “I do. I love Baxter!” My voice was cracked at the end. A woman on the other side of Sebastian glanced at me sympathetically.
I paused, and then like a bride at a wedding, I repeated the words, intoning, “I do.”
Sebastian picked up on the wedding lingo. “Then, by the power vested in me by the State of Illinois and the Great Fatherhood of Dogs, I grant you, Jessica...” he paused “...joint custody of Baxter.”
It was the last time I remember feeling married to Sebastian.
Now, in the dog park, I heard the college students saying goodbye to Baxter, and I pulled myself away from thoughts of that night.
When they left, Gavin threw the ball for Baxter again. And I wrenched myself back to the present. Enough of reviewing Sebastian and Jess, I told myself. Enough.
So when Gavin said, “I know this is kind of quick, but would you want to have a drink sometime?”
I said, “Sure.” No hesitation.
Gavin looked at me, smiled. His teeth were white against the light tan of his skin, his brown eyes crinkled. “How about today? There’s a bar up the street that allows dogs.”
He knew this, he told me as he threw the ball for Bax, because he used to have a red Labrador retriever named Wrigley. Sometimes, like today, he walked the same path he and Wrigley had when he was alive. Often, he and Wrigley had a beer after.
“Or I had a beer,” he said. “Wrig was happy at my feet.”
“Do you miss him?”
“Yeah.”
“I understand a little,” I said. “I have joint custody of this one.” I pointed to Baxter.
“Really? Or is this like the jiu-jitz?”
“No, this is real. My ex-husband and I got him when we were together. We got divorced. So now we split him. Sounds screwed up, I know.”
And right then, as if in silent agreement, Gavin and I and Baxter began walking to the bar. He asked more about the video and I told him about all the media Baxter had gotten.
“He seems to be doing well enough,” Gavin said. He pointed to Bax who trotted just ahead of us, pulling a bit on the leash, as if he was looking forward to a beer.
Gavin held the door open when we reached the place, which was dim, edged with sunlit windows. We took a seat at the bar and fell into an easy conversation about dogs. Baxter settled in on the floor, and the bartender brought him a bowl of water.
Gavin told me about Wrigley, who he had gotten from a rescue while in college and who had lived to the age of seventeen.
“Where did you get this one?” Gavin asked, pointing to Baxter.
I told him about the farm in the middle of Amish country in Indiana where my ex and I had gotten Baxter.
And I found something interesting—namely, I felt comfortable, suddenly, talking about Sebastian in the past tense. I wasn’t always saying the word husband then amending, “I mean, my ex-husband.” It just came out “my ex” and I kept talking. And the more time I spent right there, in that moment, the more I had a hard time pulling myself away from Gavin’s smile, his eyes. I wondered if he was as special as he seemed, as he looked, if we were as connected as it suddenly felt we were.
He mentioned something about his job, and I asked what it was.
“I’m in magazines.” He paused. “What?” he said. “What’s that look on your face?”
I laughed. “You’re a writer.” As easy as my ex had been to discuss, I wanted to date someone different from Sebastian.
Gavin held up a palm. “No, no. I’m not a writer. Really.” He peered at me. “But wait a minute—what’s wrong with writers?”
“My ex,” I said. “He’s a writer.”
“Ah. What kind of writing? Or shouldn’t I ask?”
“No, it’s okay.” I let the thought of Sebastian run through my head, and found that again, for the moment, it didn’t bring about a wave of sadness or regret. “Investigative journalism.”
“What kind of investigations?”
“War correspondent. International human rights. That kind of thing.”
“‘That’ kind of thing?” Gavin hung his head. When he raised it, he wore a sheepish grin. “He’s just one of those selfless guys who wants to right wrongs and makes sure our overseas heroes don’t go unsung.”
“Or he’s one of those rush junkies.”
“Is he?”
“At least a little.” I shrugged with one shoulder. “So what do you do in magazines?”
“I sell ad space.”
“You don’t sound happy about it.”
“I’m a little disenchanted right now.” But he sounded good-natured. He smiled, and that smile was easy. There was something there that was familiar, some look that was both pleased and delighted and... Ah, suddenly I remembered it. His look, which left my eyes briefly to sweep around my hair, my lips, before zooming back to me. That look I’d once seen from Sebastian a long time ago.
It was a look of excitement for the future. For potential.
13
The morning after I met Gavin I was lying in my bed when I got a text from Sebastian. But it was difficult to drag my attention away from the texts Gavin and I had been sending. They started with Nice to meet you, and Nice to meet you, too! and ran to the slightly flirtier, shaded messages we were exchanging now.
But finally I looked at Sebastian’s.
You’re in the news today, he wrote.
Hmmmm? I wrote back.
You’re in the Trib.
I stared at that sentence. I couldn’t tell if he was annoyed or okay with it.
I called Sebastian. “Morning.”
“Hey.”
“So, what does the article say?”
“Haven’t seen it yet. One of the editors just texted me. I was just going to look it up.”
“Don’t worry about it,” I said. I didn’t want to deal with his hang-up about Superdog not being news. “Baxy and I will go out and get the paper.”
By reflex, I reached toward the headboard where Baxter always slept.
“Oh, geez,” I said, a little wave of sadness cresting over me. “I forgot he was at your place.”
“He misses you,” Sebastian said kindly.
And I missed Baxter then, like a fat fist to the gut.
I shook my head to shake out the thoughts. Baxter seemed as happy about being with Sebastian as he was with me, and that was what mattered.
“Thanks, Sebastian,” I said. “Give Baxy a kiss. I’ll talk to you later.”
I would, I decided, get outside, even though I didn’t have the dog, before I’d come back and get a solid workday in on my dogwear. Lately, the days were getting hotter, the heat failing to leak out of the city much. First thing in the morning was the only relative cool Chicagoans were getting.
I took the elevator to the ground floor and went out the Goethe Street exit. A calm, powder blue sky lay comfortably over the world, while a yellow sun cast its heat behind me, rising higher over the lake.
I went to the pharmacy on the corner of State and Division, bought a few copies of the paper (maybe my parents would want one?) and quickly left.
“Baxy,” I said under my breath as I walked back. “You’re in the newspaper!” I imagined him in front of me, giving a little leap.
At the corner, a wrought iron bench was on the front lawn of an apartment complex. No one was around, so I dropped the papers on the bench and, still standing, flipped through one.
I found the article in the local celeb section of the paper. The photo h
ad been lifted from the video and showed me holding Baxter. It was cute—Baxy with his tongue hanging out, looking as though he was grinning and laughing. It was a short piece about the trending video and the attention it had garnered, even in other countries.
I smiled. But then I caught the article next to it.
The headline read, McGowan Lands Another Award.
I closed my eyes and breathed in, promising myself that the breaths would help my nerves. Then I opened my eyes and let myself look at the photo.
There was Billy McGowan. There was my past.
Hurt and shame flamed inside me. And I couldn’t believe how much it felt the same as it had back then. Such feelings could disappear but when they returned, they did so in force.
“Can I help you?”
I opened my eyes. A doorman in a brown suit and maroon tie stood in front of me. His eyes were pulled together in concern.
“I’m fine,” I said. “Just reading...” I nodded at the newspaper, seeing the other two I’d put down were being blown by a hot breeze, their pages spreading open so that they now covered most of the bench.
“I’m sorry, ma’am. Our lawn is just for residents.”
“Of course.” I closed the paper, scrambled to pick up the others. And it all came floating back.
* * *
No one thought that Billy McGowan would be the star, a musical deity of sorts, who not only had talent that grew every time he played, but someone who lit up everyone else—his brothers in the band with him, the touring group of musicians, all the fans (boys and girls alike). And me.
When I first met Billy we were both just kids, newly teenaged, from a town where they raced horses in the summer and then largely slumbered during the winter.
Billy was the youngest of the three brothers, the one, initially, who was simply along for the ride. Mick, his oldest brother, was the one everyone adored back then. Smolderingly sexy Mick, with the deep black eyes and soulful lyrics that made every girl think, I wish someone felt that way about me.
Kevin, the second, was lovable and charming. He talked to everyone young and old, wanted to know about everyone. When my mother met Kevin after Billy and I started dating, she said, “He is as sweet as pie.” Although I was envious of the smitten way my mother gazed at Kevin for that moment, a way she’d never gazed at me, and although I thought the phrase “as sweet as pie” was really stupid, I had to agree with her.
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