“It’s okay,” I said, realizing that this had something to do with the dog and wondering a moment later why I was feeling disappointed. “What’s going on?”
“It’s Bertie,” Clark said, and when he said the dog’s name, I could hear something else in his voice—fear. “I . . . He ate something, and I’m not sure what to do. I’m trying to call his vet, but . . .”
“Okay,” I said, trying to sound like I had any idea at all what to do. “It’ll be okay. I . . . um . . . Did you google the symptoms?” I glanced back to see Palmer looking confused, Toby and Bri not paying attention, and Wyatt looking amused by all of this.
“Must have been a pretty good date,” he said, arching an eyebrow at me as I turned away from him and walked a few more steps away.
“Yeah,” Clark said, and the tone in his voice made my stomach drop. This was, I realized from that one word, serious. “I don’t think it’s good. Would you—could you come by and see if you can help? I’m sorry to ask. I just . . . He’s not doing too great.”
“Of course,” I said, and even as I said it, a piece of me was wondering what the hell I was doing. But I knew I was going to go. Because it was what Maya, I was pretty sure, would want me to do. And because I knew if I didn’t, it would be all I’d think about for the rest of the night. “I’ll be there soon.”
Chapter SEVEN
Twenty minutes later I pulled into the driveway of Clark’s house. There were lights on outside, and most of the lights on the inside of the house seemed to be on as well. It looked somehow more imposing at night, the size of it magnified by the shadows stretching across the front lawn. My friends had seemed very confused about what I was doing, but I hadn’t stuck around to explain, just hugged the person nearest to me good-bye (it was Tom; he’d seemed surprised, but pleased) and hurried to my car, then drove a little faster to Clark’s than I probably should have.
I knocked twice on the door, but just as a courtesy—with my other hand, I was already pulling my key out of my bag. “Clark?” I called as I let myself in, then headed toward the kitchen.
He stepped into the kitchen doorway before I got there, blocking the light for a moment, then stepping back as I got closer. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier—except now his shirt was wrinkled and his collar askew. His short hair was no longer neatly combed, but looked like he’d been pushing his hands through it. “Thanks for coming,” he said, and it was what I’d heard on the phone, but more amplified, now that I could see his expression. He was terrified, but trying to hide it, which made whatever this was seem even scarier. “I wouldn’t have called—I didn’t know what else to do.”
“It’s okay,” I said, following behind him into the kitchen. For a second I had a flash of us, not that long ago, me following behind him through the restaurant as the hostess led us to our table. And now here we were, both in the same clothes, which now seemed somehow disappointed, like the hopes we’d had when we’d gotten dressed had come to nothing. “What’s going on?” Just as the words were out of my mouth, the smell hit me, and I stopped short. I’d been picking up after dogs for a week now, so I wasn’t squeamish, but this was something else.
“Sorry,” Clark said, wincing, as I tried not to breathe in through my nose. “I’ve been trying to clean up, but he just keeps going.”
“Where’s Bertie?” I asked, looking around, noticing as I did paper towels covering up various puddles on the kitchen floor. I didn’t know exactly what they were and wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
“I think he went to the laundry room,” Clark said. “That’s where his bed is. I’ve been trying to research what to do online, since I couldn’t get his vet on the phone—”
“What happened?” I asked, and Clark pointed to a box on the counter—the box of chocolates he’d offered to me only a few hours ago, when I’d picked the hazelnut and seriously regretted it. It had been full then—I was pretty sure there was even a second layer underneath the first one. The box wasn’t full any longer. It was ripped apart, chewed along one edge, and all that seemed to be left in the box were scraps of the black paper wrappings the chocolate had been in.
“I thought I had it back far enough on the counter,” Clark said. “But I got home from the, uh . . .” He looked up at me for a second, then at the kitchen counter. “From dropping you off,” he said after a tiny pause, “and it was like this.”
“He ate them all?” I asked, feeling my stomach sink. I was in no way a dog expert, but I’d watched enough Psychic Vet Tech to know that chocolate was terrible for dogs. As in, it sometimes killed them.
“Well, he’s thrown up a lot of them by now.”