72. HAVE MY HEART BROKEN.
That was one that hurt to see crossed out, knowing I was the reason it had been fulfilled. But it was something I couldn’t regret. If I hadn’t walked away, she wouldn’t be here right now.
Carrying my child.
Possibly facing death—again.
“You ready to go?” Lailah asked, startling me.
“What? Oh, yes, let’s go!” I answered, quickly recovering.
Taking her hand, we headed for the car, feeling the crisp ocean breeze blowing through our hair, as we walked down the driveway. I breathed in deeply, letting the smell of the water and air fill my lungs. The smell of the beach was something I’d missed while living in New York, and now that I could simply step out onto my deck and take my fair share whenever I needed, I secretly never wanted to leave. I loved what I did, working for a company that had my family’s name on it, but the farther I got from the city, the less and less I wanted to return.
As we settled into the car, I realized I had no idea where we were headed.
“So, where does one go to get a puppy?” I asked, looking over at her for guidance.
She burst into laughter but covered her mouth quickly, trying to stop. “Oh, you really are from a wealthy family, aren’t you, babe?”
“What? I mean, do we go to the mall? Petco? Hell, I don’t know.” I held up my hands in defense.
“We could go to lots of places. But there are animal shelters everywhere. I found one online that looks incredible and has a huge selection right now.”
“Okay, lead the way,” I instructed, backing out of the driveway.
She began giving directions.
The place wasn’t too far away, maybe twenty minutes with traffic. We parked close to the entrance, and as we walked toward the door, I stopped.
Turning to face her, I asked, “You’re going to adopt the most pitiful, grungiest-looking puppy in there, aren’t you?”
“Why would you say that?”
“Because you have a thing for the underdog.”
“You weren’t an underdog,” she challenged, her hands going to her hips defiantly.
“I wasn’t much,” I said.
Her hand cupped my cheek. “Looks can be deceiving. And you were more than I could have possibly imagined—even if you didn’t have the Cavanaugh last name.”
I kissed her forehead and wove my fingers around hers. “Come on. Let’s go find a puppy.”
I was right.
After an hour of deliberation, she’d settled on a shy, scraggly little fuzzball that looked like he had been eaten alive by all his fur.
“Isn’t he the cutest thing in the world?” Lailah crooned, holding him in her lap in the car.
He curled up in her arms, his little nose peeking out just beyond the crook of her arm.
“He’s goofy-looking,” I replied.
“He’s adorable!” she scolded.
I laughed. “Okay, I’ll admit, he’s kind of cute—in a weird, fluffy sort of way. Can that stuff even be brushed?” I asked, pointing to the sporadic tufts of fur that sprung out in every direction off his body.
“I think he needs a bath. Maybe a trip to a groomer? I don’t know. He’s perfect just the way he is,” she said lovingly.
We stopped at the local pet store, buying everything that was recommended and more. Toys, shampoo, treats, food, and even a comfy dog bed were thrown into the cart.
“We need to get him a tag for his collar,” I said, pointing to the engraving machine near the front.
“Oh, okay!” Lailah answered excitedly, holding her new friend close to her chest.
“Angel—”
“Yeah?”
“You need to name him first.”
Her eyes went wide, and she stopped mid-aisle. “Oh. I guess we do. Well, hmm . . . what do you think we should name him? You seem to have all sorts of good names in that head of yours,” she replied with a knowing grin.
Yeah, that had been a good night.
“Harry?” I suggested, looking down at his wild mane.
Her face scrunched together, and she shook her head. “No, not that.”
She held the dog up, getting a good look at his tiny face. His little puppy-dog eyes met hers, and she giggled.
“We should name you after a famous book dog or something.”
“There are famous book dogs?” I questioned, leaning against the cart. This was going to take a while.
“Of course there are! Bull’s-Eye from Oliver Twist, Toto from The Wizard of Oz, even Clifford from, well, Clifford.”
“So, you want to name him Clifford?” I asked, looking at the little runt, thinking he didn’t resemble the gigantic red dog in the least.
“Well, no. But maybe something similar?”
I looked at our crazy-looking mop of a dog, trying to picture him as the hero of some classic tale.
“Sandy?” I suggested. “It’s not exactly from a book, but you love the musical, and he’s kind of a tiny version of the original. And we are New Yorkers after all.”