That night, after ordering the meatiest, greasiest, grossest thing on McDonald’s menu, I sleep in a cage. With a McDouble unwrapped and resting on my lap, I sit at the opposite corner of the cage from the golden Chow, and I try coaxing her out of her shell.
I had tried offering her a piece of warm burger, but she only shivered in fear. Then I tried simply sitting next to her, but when I realized she wasn’t going to stop shaking, I moved to the opposite corner.
I talk to her about how much I miss my boyfriend. I tell her about his tour, about the pictures he’s sent me from Canada and China and Korea, about the food he’s eaten in those places and how I really hope I get to try kimchi someday. The burger grows cold as I tell her how pretty she is, as I make up fictional stories about the life she’s going to live once she gets adopted (beloved dog of a movie star, furbaby of a billionaire, spoiled pet of a sausage heiress), as I tell her about all the animals I miss back on my parents’ farm. We chat about Teacup the pig and Harley the horse and Moose the bull, and eventually, I give the dog a name: Phoenix, since I pray she rises from the ashes.
I don’t normally give the dogs names, since I’m always afraid of getting too attached, but Phoenix deserves a name, and a strong one. She eventually untucks her head from her body, watching me with her chin on her front paws as I talk. And when I run out of things to say, I offer her more burger, and I sing. She doesn’t come to me, but her tail wags ever so slightly, so I lower the burger and continue singing. And when I run out of songs, I hum songs I make up myself.
I’m sleeping when I feel something wet on my hand, and my eyelids sneak open to see Phoenix sniffing at me. Her cold nose pokes at my knuckles, and I stay still as a statue as she inspects me. I don’t even know what time it is, but the sharp ache in my back tells me that I’ve spent more than a couple hours sitting on the concrete floor.
I ignore the pain in my spine as I continue watching Phoenix check me out. She sniffs the burger but ignores it, smelling my shirt, my pants, my hand again. She nuzzles her nose under my palm, and I hold my breath. She nuzzles her nose under further, and I gently move my fingers against her fur.
Phoenix lets out a sharp cry at the movement, and I jerk my hand away, fearing I hurt her still-patchy snout, which just a week and a half ago had still been wrapped in duct tape. But as soon as I pull away, she pushes against me again, crying even louder when I try to yank my hand away again. Eventually, I realize she’s crying because she’s scared, because she wants me to protect her, and I pull her big body into my lap as she yelps and whimpers and cries.
“It’s okay,” I croon, trying to soothe her. “It’s okay, pretty girl. I’ve got you. I’ve got you. Good girl. You’re such a good girl.”
I hold her as she trembles in my arms and tries to push herself even further into the circle of my body, and I don’t know when I start crying, but at the back of that kennel, I cry along with her. My tears drip onto her golden fur as she leans on me for support, as she gives me her trust, and I try to show her a lifetime’s worth of love in the way I squeeze her against me, the way I pet my hands over her precious face.
I hold her for hours like that, letting her lick my face and my arms and my hands as I pet her. I continue talking to her—about the meaning of her name, about the importance of eating, about the fact that I’m a vegetarian. She eventually falls asleep in my arms, and I don’t leave until the following morning, when Barb arrives back at the shelter and orders me to go home. She smiles in spite of the sternness in her voice, thanking me for staying overnight but insisting I can’t live there, and I cry on my drive home about the panicked look in Phoenix’s eyes when I left her at the shelter.
For the next few days, I spend absolutely all of my free time there. If I’m not at school, sleeping, or taking care of necessary things like homework or personal hygiene, I’m working with Phoenix. On the third day, I get her to let me walk her the whole way outside, and it’s such a huge step, I call Mike to celebrate as soon as I get the chance.
“This is Mike,” his voice mail says. “Leave a message.”
“Hey,” I start, shouldering my phone as I rush onto campus to try to make my first class on time. I’m speed-walking down a sidewalk with a messenger bag slipping from my shoulder and a rock wiggling around inside my shoe. “I know you’re probably onstage right now, but I just wanted to tell you I finally got that dog I told you about to go outside today. All on her own!” I smile and try to shrug the messenger bag back up onto my shoulder. “She still won’t let anyone else touch her, but . . . I’m just really excited, and I wanted to tell you.”
My smile starts to slip when nothing but silence replies, and I realize how badly I wish I could tell him my news in person, or at least have him on the other line of the phone. It’s been so hard matching up our schedules this past week, and even though Mike has sent me flowers—which I was extremely lucky he sent to my work instead of the apartment I share with Danica—they only made me miss him more.
“Alright, well . . . I hope you’re having a good show. I miss you. Maybe we’ll get to talk later . . .”
I hang up the phone and concentrate on walking. To dull the ache of missing him, I focus on the things that I still have: school, work, Phoenix. But the more I focus on these things, the more distant Mike seems to get.
I don’t have a boyfriend who is thousands of miles away . . .
What I have are dying flowers, a voice mail I know by heart, and boyfriend who’s never here.
Chapter 41
On Friday afternoon, Rowan and Dee kidnap me for ice cream and a funny movie, and I realize how much I needed it. My entire waking life has been spent either rehabilitating Phoenix or missing Mike—missing him during meals, during showers, during the quiet time before sleep. He calls me every day on the phone, or at least leaves me a voice mail or two, but it never feels like enough. It feels like eating gluten-free bread or sugar-free doughnuts. It’s just not the same, and it’s not what I really want.
On Friday night, he asks me out on a date, and a smile sneaks onto my face as I lie in my bed with my phone to my ear. “How are you going to take me on a date when you’re a million miles away?”
“Ninety-seven hundred,” Mike corrects, and I chuckle.
“You’re keeping track?”
“Sometimes,” he admits, and I can hear the bashful smile in his voice. “It’s not that far. The moon is over two hundred thousand miles away, and man managed to travel that distance. You’re only a flight away. You’re practically down the street.”
“Then I wish you’d come visit me,” I say, unable to stop myself but hating the sadness that creeps into Mike’s reply.
“Me too. I’ve never felt this way on a tour before.”