“I don’t know,” I say, wincing. “Please stop yelling at me.”
He blows into his hands, as if he’s warming them on a cold day, before turning, walking over to an ottoman, and sitting down to put on his socks and running shoes.
“Where are you going?” I ask.
“For a run.”
“May I come?”
He looks up at me. “Because you want to come? Or because you think you should come?” he says, his eyes narrowing and flashing. “Or because you think I want you to come?”
“Because I want to,” I say, but I hear my voice rising in an unconvincing question.
Nolan hears it, too, because he stands, shakes his head, and says, “Actually, Meredith, I think I want to be alone for a while.”
chapter seventeen
JOSIE
After our second date/nondate, Pete and I text and talk daily, sometimes more than once. During one flirtatious late-night exchange (in which he jokingly offers his services to impregnate me “the old-fashioned way”), it flits through my mind that there might be romantic potential between us. But for the most part, our interaction remains platonic—and I stay focused on my goal, determined not to lose more precious time, waffling and stalling, looking for excuses not to go through with my plan, whether using Pete’s sperm or an anonymous donor.
At certain moments, the whole process reminds me of adopting Revis. First, I had to decide that I truly wanted a dog—any dog—and that the pros outweighed the many cons. Then I had to choose my actual dog. For months, I tirelessly researched breeds and breeders, while also pulling up images of homeless pups on various pet finder websites. I drove all over Georgia, visiting shelters, and I frequented the Humane Society on Howell Mill Road to such an extent that I became a de facto volunteer. Eventually I ruled out a purebred, feeling compelled to rescue, and then eliminated all puppies after discovering that they have a much easier time finding homes than adult dogs. But I still remained paralyzed by indecision, reluctance, and endless second-guessing, always focusing on the particular drawbacks of individual dogs. Some barked too much; others shed excessively; many simply had a notoriously aggressive breed in their mix—like pit bull or Rottweiler. (I hated to be prejudiced against a breed, but my sister was adamant that I not take the chance with Harper, and ultimately I agreed with her.)
Then, one day after work, I decided it was time to pull the trigger. So I drove over to the Humane Society, walked into the adult big-dog room (always less crowded than the puppy and small-dog rooms), and spotted Revis, a new resident, staring adorably up at me from the corner of his cinder-block kennel. A three-year-old black Lab–collie mix, he was larger than what I ideally wanted, with loads of fluffy black hair that I knew would end up on everything, particularly in my all-white bedroom. Two strikes. Then I read his story, typed up and posted on his kennel, about how his former owner had dropped him off, unable to deal with Revis’s “separation anxiety”—which I knew was a nice way of saying he destroys shit when left alone. Three strikes.
I almost kept walking, headed for a gnarly-looking but very sweet beagle-retriever mix named Betty, also a new resident. But something made me stop and kneel down before Revis.
“C’mere, boy,” I called out softly. “C’mere, Revis.”
Revis gave me a skeptical stare before standing, wagging his fluffy tail, and trotting over to me. He pressed his pink and black mottled nose against the Plexiglas partition, staring into my eyes.
A moment later, I had retrieved the key to his padlock and was letting him lead me around the courtyard outside the shelter. He was attentive, alert, and good on a leash, and as we sat in the shade, quietly bonding, I whispered into one cocked ear, “Hey, buddy. Are you my dog?” Revis looked up at me, right into my eyes, and I swear he smiled and nodded. I was smitten.
Of course even then, when I was utterly convinced he was the dog for me, it still took me another ten days, two additional visits, and an introduction between Revis and Gabe (after which Gabe voted an unequivocal no, wary over the “separation anxiety” description) before I finally paid my fee, signed the papers, overrode Gabe’s veto, and made it official. That was three years ago, and despite what a giant pain in the ass Revis can be, I have never once, even fleetingly, questioned my decision to adopt him, rescue him, make him mine.
When I draw this comparison to Gabe one evening, he looks up at me from his book. “You’re comparing having a baby to getting a dog?”
“No, I’m comparing Pete to Revis,” I say, sitting on the chair across from him.
Gabe closes the book, marking his spot with his thumb. “Look, Josie. Don’t make me go all Meredith on your ass.”