Holt once again tries to hand me the envelope, and I shake my head at him. Finally, he drops it at my feet and swallows hard. His lips are slightly parted like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t. My eyes drop to his chest because I can’t stand to look into his eyes any longer. His firm hands reach out and grip my shoulders. I try to back away, but he won’t let me. As if he is admitting defeat, his grip lessens as he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to my forehead.
“Goodbye, Saige,” he says softly before his feet begin rustling through the grass and he starts walking away. “Oh,” he says, turning around. “There was one more lie, Saige. Since I’m laying it all out to you, you may as well know the truth about everything.” He pauses and purses his lips. “You asked me when I fell in love with you . . .”
I shiver as he speaks, waiting to hear his answer.
“I told you in New York.”
“I remember.”
“I lied to you. I fell in love with you the minute you walked across Bar 51 toward me on those shaky legs. The way you looked at me like no one else on earth existed. And then I fell more in love with you when I felt your lips, but it was when you showed me your heart I knew I’d never be able to not love you. I was just too afraid to admit it to you, because somewhere deep inside, I knew the bottom would fall out and I’d lose you.” His voice breaks and he chokes back his emotion.
It’s like the air has been knocked out of me. He loved me first. My heart shatters and my stomach lurches, and I swallow down the lump in my throat. He loved me first. I close my eyes at his confession, unable to look into his eyes anymore.
“Goodbye, Holt,” I mumble under my breath, turning away from him just as the tears spill from my eyes and down my face.
I hear him walk away then and know I’ll never be able to put the pieces of my shattered heart together again.
The shuffling of forks and knives against dinner plates is the only sound at the dinner table tonight. No one speaks as I push roast and potatoes around my plate. Mom and Uncle Brent glance back and forth between each other and me before I finally just excuse myself from the table.
“Saige,” Brent calls me back. “Sit down.”
I feel like I’m being scolded, but the look in his eyes tells me something else. I’ve seen that look before. He’s struggling with something. I slide back into the dining room chair and rest my hands on the edge of the wood table.
“Tomorrow,” he says, pushing his plate away from him and clearing his throat. “I have an appointment.”
“Okay?” I look between Brent and my mom. My mom’s eyes are downcast as she fidgets with the napkin in her lap.
“For Murphy,” he says quietly, his eyes full of pain.
“No!” I jump up from the table. “I’m not ready yet. It’s not time.”
“It is, Saige,” he reasons with me. “It’s not fair to him anymore. He can barely walk. Since you got back from the creek today, he hasn’t been able to move.”
I glance over at the fluffy dog bed in the corner, and Murphy lies there watching us. His yellow fur has turned almost white.
“He’s old,” Brent says. “Labs don’t typically live this long. He’s had a great life with us.” His voice is affectionate and sad. “In the last week alone, he’s started to decline. He can barely keep his food down. He struggles to stand up and remain standing.”
No. No, not yet.
I burst into tears, falling off the chair to my knees. Letting Murphy go means letting the last thing my father ever gave me go. I can’t do it.
“Saige.” Brent jumps up from the dining room table. “It’s going to be hard for all of us,” he says. “But he’s—”
“I know,” I reply through my tears as he sits on the ground next to me.
“We can’t let him suffer anymore, though, Saige.”
I look over at Murphy, whose big brown eyes show me how tired they are, and I know Brent is right. “What time?” I ask.
“The vet will be here at nine o’clock.”
I nod but can’t seem to stop crying. “Can you lift him up the stairs so he can sleep in my room tonight?”
Brent rests his hand on my shoulder and gives it a squeeze. “You bet, Piglet.”
Murphy spends the night in my bed, and he whimpers while I cry all night long. He tries to comfort me as he licks the salty tears from my face, and I just wrap myself around him as I weep. Hearing me cry is not new for him. Murphy spent many nights in my bed, licking my tears, listening to me talk, and just comforting me when I’d wake up from my nightmares. I’ve never had a better best friend.
On our last morning together, we watch the sunrise and he lets out a long sigh. It’s like he knows his time with me is nearing an end. Resting his muzzle under my chin, he finally closes his eyes, falling into a comforting sleep. His little snores tell me he’s at peace with the situation, and I’m going to have to try to be as well.
The vet normally likes to see animals in the barn, where they’re contained, but I haven’t stepped foot in that barn in ten years. It’s not about to happen today either. So the vet quietly examines Murphy on the floor in our living room, listening to his heart, and checking his eyes and gums. Murphy doesn’t flinch or even try to move. The vet agrees it’s time and prepares an IV.