by Lila Monroe
“It’s a chicken,” I say, giving a shrug. “Maybe they have a thing for chickens. Or Colin made his money in egg farming.”
“That is seriously fugly,” Zoey says, leaning closer. “Must be a gag gift from the dollar store.”
“I don’t know. Looks legit,” Gemma says, picking it up and looking at the bottom. “Made in France. It’s so kitschy; I kind of love it.”
“Put that down!” I say, panicked. “If you break it . . .”
“Relax.” Gemma slides it back onto the mantle unharmed.
We eventually return to the kitchen, where Zoey has a baristagasm over the coffee machine. Of course, she knows how to operate the thing and make us all delicious Spanish coffees. While we drink them, she takes pity on me and makes cinnamon buns, even using Noah’s borrowed sugar.
After we have a good laugh about my bullshit excuse for peeking in his window, that is.
“What else was I supposed to do?” I cry. “I totally panicked!”
“You should have told him you were there for some pool house sex,” Zoey offers as she sprinkles cinnamon sugar over her dough.
“Everyone knows that what happens in the pool house,” Gemma drawls as she takes a sip of her boozy coffee, “stays in the pool house.”
“If only I’d thought of it at the time,” I joke.
But, now, in the light of a new day, I’m still mad at his nerve. I try to eat my feelings with two gooey, sweet cinnamon buns but am still vibrating with anger. Or maybe it’s the sugar rush. Whatever. I’m channeling it for good at the shelter, on my hands and knees, scrubbing kennels with fierce determination fueled by rage and indignation.
Because seriously, Noah is the worst!
I finish up the kennels and head out front to unlock the front doors. As I do, a tentative woman—about my age—approaches the door. I greet her with a friendly smile. “Hi! Here to adopt?”
She pauses. “Maybe?”
“Come on in.” I wave her inside. “We’ll find you the perfect new life partner.”
She laughs. “The bar is pretty low—I just got rid of a not-so-perfect life partner. A man, I mean, not a dog.”
I nod knowingly. “Dogs are so much better than men,” I say. “They’re loyal, they don’t drink or judge, they’re great listeners, and while they may flirt with your friends, they’ll always love you best.”
The woman smirks at me. “Sounds like you’ve given this a lot of thought.”
Yes, especially this morning, I don’t say out loud. “It’s my job. How’s the sales pitch working so far?”
“Really well, actually.” She smiles. “Why don’t you show me around?”
An hour later, the woman leaves with Ralph, a goofy but adorable Goldendoodle that is perfectly matched to her active lifestyle. I tried to sell her on poor Fred, but when he’d farted as he got off his bed to shuffle over to greet her, he sealed his fate.
“We’ll get your match, Fred,” I promise him.
Speaking of Perfect Match, as I’m filing the adoption paperwork, my phone buzzes with a new alert.
A guy wants to meet me. And not just any guy, but a cute, gainfully employed guy who even has a pic of himself with a dog. My emotions are roiling—I’m excited and optimistic, but at the same time, feeling stung by my recent shitty dates.
You just let Noah get in your head, I tell myself. Ignore his bullshit and go for it!
I agree to meet the guy for a classic film and dinner, but only after I study his picture and make sure I’ll be able to one-hundred percent recognize him later. Just to be sure, I get him to tell me what he’ll be wearing.
Can’t be too sure these days.
I FINISH my shift at the shelter and quickly walk a regular client—a walk that I cut short, sorry, Fluffers! Then I rush back to Casa Luxury to get ready for my big date.
Leia and Hans greet me at the door, and instantly I’m feeling less anxious about my date. No matter what happens, I get to come home to these two. But that moment of Zen doesn’t last very long. Because, lucky me, Noah is sitting at the kitchen island, his laptop and a pile of papers spread out in front of him.
He looks up. “I’ll be out of your way in ten minutes.”
“Don’t bother,” I say with a wave of my hand. Zen and breezy, baby. “I’m going out.”
“Hot date?” he teases.
“None of your business.”
“Ah,” he says, leaning back in the stool until it’s balanced on two legs. “So you swiped right.”
Nope. Not having this conversation. He will not get in my head!
“Have a good night!” I singsong as I head toward the stairs to grab a shower and get ready.
After I emerge from the bathroom, I pick out some cute jeans and a classic lacy top. It will go from movie to dinner easily and my pink cardigan will keep me warm in the notoriously over-air-conditioned theater. I do my hair and makeup, going for a fresh and natural look, then head downstairs, checking the clock on my phone. I’m going to need to hurry if I’m going to get the bus to the theater—if I miss it, I’ll be on the hook for an expensive Uber. And I don’t know if this guy is even worth that yet.
Noah is gone from the kitchen, but then I hear a whistle and look toward the living room where he’s sitting in front of the TV, the dogs snuggled into him on the sofa. “You look good,” he says.
I can’t tell if he means it. I narrow my eyes.
“What?” he says. “It’s a compliment!”
Hmmm. “Thank you,” I say nicely.
“Remember, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do!”
I roll my eyes as I leave. What does that leave me? Nothing much, I’d bet.
I head over to the movie theater. I’m early for my date, so I wait outside, loving the outdoor ticket booth and the flashing marquis lights. I bet inside will be all red velvet, polished wood, and the mingled smells of popcorn, musty fabric, and nostalgia.
Perfectly romantic . . . if my date is up to the job.
I’m sure I’ll have a great time, especially when I review Greg’s profile again. Six foot two, systems analyst (whatever that is—but hello: employed), loves paintball and classic movies, obviously. Also, he has a gorgeous German Shepherd named Klaus. Major box ticked.
I try to tamp down my enthusiasm, but not very well. I’m nervous and excited and I’m already imagining us at a dog park, holding hands as we watch Klaus play with other dogs.
“Hi, Eve?”
I turn . . . And smile. He’s nice-looking and neatly dressed. Score one so far!
“Hi,” I smile. “Great to meet you.”
“Did you find this place OK?” he asks, steering me to the ticket counter. I reach for my wallet, but he waves it away. “Oh, no, my treat, please. After all, I picked the movie.”
“Thank you.” I beam wider. Chivalry isn’t dead. “I actually haven’t heard of this one before.”
“You’ll love it,” he reassures me, before turning to the clerk. “Two for A Clockwork Orange, please.”
I insist on buying popcorn in return for the tickets, and soon we’re settled in the middle row, ready for the curtain to go up.
“So, do you live in the neighborhood?” I ask.
“Shh, it’s starting.” He looks intently up at the screen.
OK, then . . . that’s why we planned on dinner after, so we could do the talking then.
I stuff a handful of popcorn in my face and sit back, eager to enjoy the film.
Uh, nope.
A Clockwork Orange turns out to be probably the most violent and misogynistic movie ever made. I’m not even exaggerating. It is legit the worst thing my brain has ever been exposed to, and I grew up with a mother with no boundaries who sat me down in front of my first slasher movie when I was six.
At one point, I turn to him, horrified at what is on the screen. He grins at me. “Great, right? This is my twenty-second time seeing it and it just gets better and better.”
His what now?
I gape in disbelief
. . . And then have to hide my eyes for a particularly nasty sequence. When I can’t take even a second more, I excuse myself to use the bathroom and keep on walking right out of the theater. Despite my wallet’s protests, I hail a cab because I can’t get out of there fast enough. No, I can’t get away from Greg fast enough.
What kind of guy thinks that counts as a romantic first date?!
By the time I get home, I’m ready to curl up with the pugs and call it a night. Then I hear the sound of the TV.
A sigh escapes me as I realize that, unless I’m willing to go back outside, around the house, and climb a trellis to my second-floor bedroom window, there’s no getting past Noah unnoticed.
To add insult to injury, I am suddenly hit with the delicious aroma of tomatoes, fresh-baked bread, and something spicy. Dammit, he’s ordered pizza.
And I didn’t even make it to dinner.
“You’re home early,” he says, raising an eyebrow as I slink into the room.
“You should be a detective.” I try to ignore how hot he looks, lounging there in sweatpants and a loose T-shirt.
He mutes the TV and looks over at me. “I take it tonight’s guy didn’t turn out to be soulmate material?”
I drop onto the couch. “No,” I sigh. “He was definitely not that.” There’s a giant pizza box on the ottoman and I wonder if he’s eaten the whole thing. Would he mind if I grabbed a slice? He’s eaten a bunch of Zoey’s—er . . . my—homemade cinnamon buns, so he kind of owes me . . .
Noah follows my gaze. “Help yourself,” he says, smiling. “Since you look like you’re ready to eat the box. Trust me, what’s inside is better.”
Oh, thank you Lord. There’s over half the pizza left. Pepperoni, green peppers, tons of cheese, and, if my nose isn’t mistaking me, bacon. I grab a slice, not bothering to get up for a plate or even a napkin. “I didn’t get dinner.”
“That bad?”
“Worse,” I say just before I take my first bite. I nearly moan in pleasure—this pizza is amazing.
“Oh, come on,” Noah says, handing me a paper towel and nodding toward my mouth. “It couldn’t have been that bad.”
“Trust me.” I wipe away the glob of tomato sauce before taking another bite. “It was.”
“Did he not tick enough boxes?” Noah asks, almost sarcastic.
“He ticked several, to be honest,” I reply.
“So then, you ever think that maybe your bar’s too high?”
I shake my head. “You have no idea. This guy was literally the worst.”
I finish my slice and gaze longingly at the rest of the pie. Noah rolls his eyes. “Go on then.”
“You sure?” I ask—already reaching.
He nods. “I may not know you yet, but something tells me I don’t want to stand between you and pizza.”
“Smart move,” I agree, inhaling another slice.
“So . . . ?” he prompts, shifting to get comfortable. “Tell me about your date.”
What the hell? I tell him the whole sorry story, right up to where I walked out.
“A Clockwork Orange,” he says, snorting with laughter. “For a first date—no, for any date?! OK, I agree on this one. That guy was . . . not for you.”
“Right? Dating is . . . ugh.” I shake my head. “Maybe I was born a century too late. Apps and toxic masculinity, and all this hookup bullshit. Guys don’t have a clue. It’s so complicated! I hate all the technology—does it all really make it easier to meet people?”
“It makes it easier to meet creeps,” Noah says. “All kidding aside, Eve, I think you dodged a bullet tonight. Anyone who thinks that film is romantic . . .”
“I know.” I shudder. “I can’t even imagine where he would have taken me for dinner.”
“His woodshed?” Noah offers.
I laugh. “Anyway, this wasn’t about my standards being too high. And really, why shouldn’t I be willing to wait for Mr. Right? I’m worth it!” I stare at him, defying him to challenge my philosophy. Because I am worth it, dammit!
Aren’t I?
Noah rolls his eyes, but he gives me a begrudging smile all the same. “You are.”
“Thank you.” I exhale. “I just want to believe there’s someone out there who’s perfect. Not perfect,” I correct myself. “But perfect for me, you know? I don’t think it’s wrong to hope. I’m not saying I expect to see someone across a crowded room and know. I’m saying I believe that there can be a connection with someone. Something real.” I pause, feeling self-conscious now. “Does that make sense? Or do you still think I’m hopelessly naïve?”
Noah smiles. “Maybe a bit of both.”
“I’ll take it.”
He’s looking at me kind of weirdly, so I pause.
“What?” I wipe at my face. “More sauce?”
“I . . . may have underestimated you,” he says slowly.
“You think?” I snort. “People do, all the time. It’s the hair,” I sigh. “Or because I’m so tiny. They think I’m just a ditzy blonde. I thought about dyeing it, but . . . I figure anyone who makes assumptions about me based on the way I look isn’t worth having around at all.”
“Then I guess I owe you an apology,” Noah says.
“One more slice of your pizza and we’ll call it even.” I grin.
Just then the doorbell rings. I freeze and look up at Noah as the dogs start barking. “Ohmigod,” I gasp. “Clockwork Orange guy!”
The second I got in the cab, I’d blocked him, but obviously he’s a psychopath with excellent tracking skills!
“Relax,” Noah says as he gets up off the couch. I stay where I am, looking around for a weapon. There’s a bronze statue of a heron on a side table that looks heavy. I shuffle closer to it.
I hear a woman’s voice. Then some laughing. The door closes. Two sets of footsteps.
That’s when it clues in. Noah has a booty call.
“Umm, hi,” I wave to the tall, striking woman who trails him back into the house.
She looks at me, confused.
“Ignore her,” Noah says breezily. “I’m right out back.”
“Oh, OK!” The girl follows him out.
“What about your pizza?” I call after him.
“Finish it,” he says. “I’m otherwise occupied.”
He winks and heads out . . . to his night of red-hot action, no doubt.
Not that I care.
“This is better anyway,” I tell the pups. “Free pizza, the house of my dreams, and you two. Like I told that woman at the shelter today. Dogs are way better than men.”
6
EVE
THE NEXT MORNING, after tending to the dogs and stuffing the last cinnamon bun into my face, I hurry out of the house. I do not want to run into Noah or, even worse, his date. Whatever they were doing in that pool house, it kept the lights on until long after I finally turned in. Not that I was keeping tabs. Not at all. I can’t help it if my windows happen to look down there. Or if the dogs happen to bark and whine when somebody finally left around 2 a.m.
It’s none of my business. So, after a quick stop at the shelter to pick up four dogs—including Fred—I walk over to Sunset Pines, a nearby retirement home. Once a week, I take the calmest dogs at the shelter to hang out with the residents. I floated the idea by Diane a while back, to help socialize the dogs and give the residents some impromptu pet therapy. After a crazy successful trial run, she and the director of the home had agreed it was a win-win and we’ve been doing it ever since. After all, there’s no expiration date on furry friends.
When I arrive, I take the dogs through into the courtyard, where a bunch of the regulars are already enjoying the morning sun with their coffee and tai chi.
“Good morning!” I call out, letting the dogs off their leashes. All of them have been here before, so they know the drill—that not only are the seniors ready for love, but they’re loaded with treats—angling to be the most popular with the mutts.
“Eve, sweetheart. Come sit and tell us how you
are.” One of the residents, Marge, pats the bench beside her. She’s one of my favorites, a woman in her eighties with a sharp tongue and an eye for gossip, always accompanied by her husband, Frank, whose wheelchair is never stationed far away.
I take a seat. “So, what happened with Rudy?” I ask, remembering the scandal from last week.
She chuckles. “Well! It turns out, they caught him sneaking out of Betty’s room.”
“No!” I gasp, reaching for a cookie. “I thought he was dating Julia.”
“So did she!” Frank grins.
I laugh along with them. These two have been together for sixty-five years and are still very much in love. Hashtag: relationship goals.
“Tell me about what’s going on in your life,” Marge asks me. “You’re not still living in that ridiculous house with those college kids, are you?”
“Yes and no.” I go on to tell her about the dog-sitting gig—leaving out the part about Noah.
“That sounds great!” she says. “Doesn’t it, Frank?”
“Utter utopia,” he agrees as he holds out a liver snap for one of the dogs.
“If only . . .” I start, but then I realize I don’t want to go there.
Marge’s painted-on eyebrows move up high on her head. “If only . . . what?”
I sigh and tell her about the complication of Noah.
She frowns. “Has he . . . acted inappropriately?”
“Yes! He . . .” I think about our interactions and sigh. “No. I guess not,” I begrudgingly agree. “He’s just . . . infuriating! He walks around like he owns the place, stealing my food, and inviting over guests. Female guests!”
Marge gets a twinkle in her eye. One that looks a lot like Gemma and Zoey’s twinkles.
“No!” I say, holding up my palm. “Do not say what you’re thinking.”
“I’m eighty-six, young lady!” Marge says. “I will say whatever I like. This man has gotten under your skin.”
“Yes,” I admit. “Because he’s annoying and cynical and thinks everyone who believes in true love and soulmates is foolish and naïve!”
She nods toward her husband. “Sounds a lot like someone I know.”