Page 18 of You and Me, For Real
6
GRIFFIN
Ibounce my left leg as I sit in my Audi, eager for Ashton’s arrival at the shelter. My energy peaks to a level ten. The two extra cups of coffee I pounded back this morning are helping, I’m sure.
I’m anxious to tell Ashton the news that’s been buzzing in my veins since I woke up this morning.
I’m going to be a dog owner.
Sadly, last night after a bath, the dog retreated under my bed and never came out. Witnessing this broke me. I knew I hadn’t earned her trust, but I wanted it so badly. Growing up, my parents said I didn’t have time to take care of a dog with my acting commitments. Now I have one, and someone treated her so poorly that she’s terrified of me.
When I closed my eyes in bed last night, I pictured her sweet, wrinkled face with her sad chocolate eyes and decided I couldn’t stand the thought of someone else owning her. I wouldn’t risk her experiencing more mistreatment.
Like some crazed dog fanatic, I whispered into the dark, “I’m going to keep you, girl. You’re going to have a good life here. With me. We’ll figure this out. Together.”
Despite her lack of response, I committed my heart to her all the same.
I named her Roxy—a strong, resilient name. Then I went straight to Google for help, like any dog novice would and discovered Ashton’s blog. Though, I didn’t actually know it was hers at first. There was no name attached to it, onlyThe Furry Godmother. But after some digging on the “About Me” page, I zoomed in and spotted the same California Bay Animal Shelter logo in the background that I’d seen on her shirt yesterday. The woman in the picture was petite and blonde with a wide smile on her face. Multiple dogs surrounded her. You could only see a smidgen of her face due to sunglasses and a hat, but I knew. I knew it was her as certainly as if she were staring directly back at me as she had yesterday with those big, brown doe eyes of hers.
I read a few of her articles and was both charmed by her writing style and awed by her knowledge of dogs. A few posts were dedicated to her desire to start a nonprofit rescue for rehabilitating dogs with behavioral struggles. The very definition of Roxy—timid, shy, and a sufferer of trauma. I’d decided then that she was the perfect person to help navigate this new pet-ownership territory.
I may have gone to sleep worried about Roxy, but I woke up multiple times last night thinking of a certain blonde. One that’s pulling into the parking lot at this very moment in an old silver Camry.
My blood pumps harder in my veins and I leap out of my car, eager to experience another interaction with Ashton. I enjoyed our all-too-brief repartee yesterday more than I care to admit. She made me feel like a normal guy, not some Hollywood hunk. It made gaining her attention and favor feel more like a challenge. I liked it.
I wait with my back pressed against my car, one foot crossed over the other, sipping my coffee. Cool, casual, calm. Not at all how I really feel inside.
Her car door creaks open and she emerges from it. She doesn’t look in my direction. She’s holding a coffee cup in one hand and slipping a purse over her shoulder with the other. Lifting the coffee up high to keep her purse strap on, she shuts the car door with her hip. Her purse subsequently gets caught in the door.
She wasn’t exaggerating yesterday when she said she’s a bit clumsy. “You okay, there?”
She yelps and jolts. Coffee splashes out of her cup lid and down her hand.
I cringe. “Need any help?”
She holds the cup higher. “Nope. Nope. All good here.”
She finally gets her purse, coffee, and door situation under control and turns to walk toward the entrance of the shelter, where I’m conveniently parked. I stride toward her to assist, holding out a hand to take the coffee. “I’ll get that.”
“I’m good. I’m good.”
“Seriously, it’s not a problem.” I take the cup from her hand. She’s wearing black scrubs again with the shelter’s logo. This time, however, instead of a messy bun, her hair is down in loose, golden waves.
She shakes out her arm and hand, flinging off the residual coffee. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” Her eyes dip to my chest and abdomen. Some internal part of me droops a little. Maybe she’s just like all other women—seeing me only for my physique.
“I see you found some clothes that fit today.”
I laugh, caught off guard. “Yes. The other was thrown in my fire pit the second I got home.”
“Shame. Would have made a nice blouse for someone.”
She continues walking, sorting through her keys.
I stand momentarily frozen, in awe of this woman. She, yet again, surprises and intrigues me.
“What are you doing here so early? We don’t open for another thirty minutes.” She peers back toward my car. “Where’s the dog? Is she with you?”
