Читать книгу Wednesday Walks & Wags - Melissa Storm - Страница 10

Chapter 4

Bridget returned home to torn cardboard scattered from one end of the apartment to the other. All three dogs came running to greet her at the door. Her rottweiler Rosco clutched a torn-up box corner between his teeth and wagged his stub in a happy blur. Her pets had never been this destructive at her father’s house, where she’d stayed after she was kicked out of her last apartment. But he’d also forced her to keep them confined to her room whenever she left home.

Like her, they just needed some time to adjust.

At least she hoped that was the case for all of their sakes.

Being rescues, both of her larger dogs came with some behavioral issues—chief among them, separation anxiety—as evidenced by that evening’s messy display.

After petting them each hello, she grabbed one of the few undamaged boxes that remained and set to picking up the scraps. The dogs followed her while she worked, hoping she’d change her mind about cleaning up and would start a game of fetch or tug instead.

At least she’d already unpacked everything she’d brought with her. She didn’t need the leftover boxes, anyway. If they’d kept her dogs entertained during her long shift that day, then all the better.

But what might they destroy tomorrow?

There wasn’t anything that couldn’t be replaced, except . . .

Her heart sped to a crazy gallop the moment the horrible thought crossed her mind. Her legs jerked to life and carried her quickly across the apartment. What had she been thinking, leaving the bedroom open all day?

Falling to the floor, she grabbed her mother’s box from the back corner of the closet. Relief surged through her at once. She’d been so stupid. What would she have done if it wasn’t there? If she’d forever lost the last of her mother’s things?

Thankfully, both the box and its contents had survived the cardboard massacre. To be safe, she hoisted the precious yet dreaded package to the top shelf of her closet, where she knew no dog could ever reach it. Unfortunately, because of the sloped ceiling of the room, she was now unable to close the closet door, and that meant she’d have to see the wretched thing every time she came to or from her bedroom.

Maybe she could sneak it back into her dad’s house or convince one of the girls to take it off her hands for a while.

But then she’d have to talk about it, and talking was the last thing she wanted to do. She’d had more than enough time to cope with her mother’s death, known it was coming for years. They’d shared heartfelt goodbyes and even worked on a bucket list together. They’d worked about a third of the way through the items on the list before her mother became too sick to continue.

The partially completed list was in that box, too. Forever frozen between their last completed item (Count the stars) and the one that came after it (Complete a charity race). In fact, they’d already registered for their race and raised funds, but then they had to cancel when her mother became too weak to leave the house.

Bridget had begged and pleaded for her mom to join her in a wheelchair, but she’d flat-out refused. Instead she’d closed the notebook where they’d recorded so many of their adventures together and told her daughter that they’d finished as much as they could in the time God had given her.

And that was it.

She died less than two weeks later.

Bridget pictured that long-neglected notebook now. They hadn’t even made it halfway through the list. As much as she hated leaving things undone, she couldn’t bring herself to continue the journey alone.

She couldn’t even open the stupid box, for crying out loud!

And now she was crying.

Again.

When did the hurt finally go away? Did it ever? Or did it remain such a constant presence that it eventually became a part of who you were? Would the sense of loss one day identify her just as much as her dark hair or her chubby cheeks?

Teddy came over and let out a low whine as he studied his distraught human.

“I’m okay,” she told him with a sniff. “I’m okay.”

The little dog, appearing content with this answer, licked Bridget’s hand once, twice, and kept licking until she finally pulled it away. As soon as she did, Teddy’s body went completely still. His ears twitched, and then he unleashed another torrent of excited barks.

Her family had adopted Teddy about seven years ago. She’d been in tenth grade then, and she’d insisted on the adorable dog that looked so much like a stuffed toy that one of its most popular looks had been dubbed the “teddy bear cut.” Her mother had also fallen in love with the little fluffball on sight, and that was that. Nobody stopped to research the breed traits, to learn that they’d just brought into their lives one of the noisiest creatures that ever existed.

She’d grown used to Teddy’s barking. After all, he did it for everything—joy, pain, alarm, frustration, hunger, everything. Her dad and brothers, however, were constantly set on edge by the Pomeranian’s vocalizations, even now. That was part of the reason why she’d taken him with her once she was approved for the new dog-friendly apartment.

And she was glad she had.

Teddy had loved her mother, too. He knew what she’d lost, that she’d lost some important part of herself in the process. He knew, but he still loved her with an unyielding ferocity that no human being would ever be able to replicate.

Thank God for Pomeranians.

Drying her eyes with the palms of her hands, Bridget got up from the floor and went to stand at the window to see what had set Teddy off this time. She peeked out just in time to spot her new neighbor Wesley and his dogs crossing the courtyard below.

“Hey!” she cried, tapping on the glass to get his attention. “Hey! Wait for me!”

Wesley paused and waved; an uncertain expression flitted across his otherwise drawn features.

“C’mon, Teddy,” she called, shoving her feet into her best pair of sneakers and grabbing the Pomeranian’s leash from the hook by the door.

Once again, she wasn’t thinking.

Just doing.

Something about her new neighbor intrigued her. Definitely not his winning personality, but . . . something. Perhaps she’d figure out what that thing was after tonight’s walk—or at least learn enough not to be curious anymore. She doubted he’d spared her a second thought after that morning’s run-in at the vet, and that made him the perfect walking buddy, the very non-buddyness of him.

Both Rosco and Baby tried to follow them out of the apartment, but she didn’t want to make Wesley and his two energetic huskies wait a moment longer than necessary. Besides, she still had trouble controlling all three dogs at once, especially given that two of them were stronger than she was.

“I’ll walk you when I get back,” Bridget promised, blowing each of them kisses, then hurried downstairs to join Wesley, Beau, and Snow on their evening walk. Even if they didn’t know it, they’d saved her from the dangerous whirlpool of grief that had been gathering strength, ready to pull her under.

She could not afford to be drowned by her bitter emotions.

Not today.

Not again.