CARSON
Sliding into the backseat of my limo, I sag against the leather and yank the door shut. My best friend John and his date, Aaron, sit along the side, looking perfectly happy in their tuxedos. Not me. As fast as my fingers can move, I undo the bow tie that’s been strangling me for the last four hours.
There are very few people I’ll wear a tux for, but my sister—or rather, her memory—is one of them. And four hours of slow, steady strangulation is nothing compared to what I’ve been through over the last year.
“That was incredible.” John puts his arm around Aaron’s shoulders and leans back against the seat, closing his eyes. “How much did you raise?”
“A little over 18 mil.”
John lets out a long whistle and smacks my knee. “Sara would be so proud, man.” I just nod, swallowing the lump in my throat for about the hundredth time tonight. “That’ll save a lot of dogs, you should be proud too.”
Another nod. I am proud, and I know my sister would be over the moon. There was nothing on this planet she loved more than her rescues. Underneath the pride and, frankly, the relief that the fundraiser is done, the slow current of loneliness drifts, unchanged.
The late-night lights of LA, with its never-ending bustle of activity, pass by in a blur, fading quickly once we reach the hills. No tourists out here. Just insane mansions on vast acres of property. The only lights out here are the stars and the glowing gatehouses that stand sentinel at the end of mile-long driveways.
I still can’t fully grasp thatIlive here. Me. The Kentucky farm boy. Five-time 4-H blue ribbon winner at the state fair. But I do. Sometimes it feels wrong, living in a gated community. Pretentious. But it beats the hell out of being tortured by double-decker celebrity bus tours or constantly worrying that another fan will scale my garden wall to take selfies by my pool. Fucking TikTok trends.
The tires of the limo crunch on the white gravel driveway as the limo pulls around the circle to drop us off up front. Aaron and John follow me to the front door. I hear the paws skittering over the marble foyer before I even touch the handle. Dread of what I might find on the other side makes me pause before opening the door.
“Uh-oh,” John says under his breath. Uh-oh is damn right.
“What’s uh-oh?” Aaron asks, confused.
“Um… let’s step back and let Carson go first.” John puts his hands on his date’s shoulders and steers him back a good ten feet.
“Pussy!” I call over my shoulder, even though that was probably a good idea. I turn the handle and open the door just an inch, peeking inside. “Ah, shit. She tossed the front hall.”
“Do you see her?” John calls out. I open the door a little more, but all I see is a mess.
“No…” I turn to look at John and nearly bust up laughing. “Dude, you’re being ridiculous.” He’s clutching the front of Aaron’s jacket, his eyes wide. Yeah, the dog I inherited from my sister is a pain in the ass, but she’s not exactly dangerous. “Come on, man. She’s just a—OOF”
An enormous furry weight hits my chest with all the subtlety of a wrecking ball, and knocks the air out of me as I fall backwards onto the gravel. I struggle to catch my breath, trying to fend off the long-ass tongue slathering drool all over my face and neck, but I can’t stop laughing long enough to suck in a decent breath.
Finally, I get a hold of Bubbles’ collar and roll her off me. She springs up, sprinting toward John and Aaron, tail wagging. John lets out a less-than-dignified shriek and jumps behind his date, despite having at least six inches and fifty pounds on the younger man.
Bubbles jumps at them, wagging so hard that her back feet skid out on the gravel each time she moves side to side.
“Bubbles, down.” I use the stern voice the Austrian taught me, but Bubbles doesn’t listen. I get to my feet, grab her by the collar, and haul her back inside. She wags the whole time, just so pleased I came home.
I’ve never known a dog so full of love. I’ve also never known a dog as destructive as she is. The sight in my foyer is one for the record books. Trash and papers are scattered all over, shredded to bits. A spindle on the long, curved stair rail is chewed clean through, the remains looking like a stalactite. The runner is yanked off the bottom steps and hangs limply, a corner partially eaten.
“Bubbles,” I moan. “What did you do?” Five hours. Five hours I was gone. When I left, she was in herveryexpensive “breakout proof” crate, inside of the playroom I had set up for her. Bubbles sits by my ankles, smiling up at me. That grin says, ‘Look, Dad! I redecorated for you!’ Her cream-colored fluffy tail wags aggressively, sweeping detritus across the foyer floor.
Henrietta, my housekeeper, chooses that moment to stomp down the stairs, dragging a suitcase behind her. “Mr. Jones, I quit!”
She rakes a hand through her long, graying hair, tugging at the roots. She kicks half of a cereal box out of her way and slaps a piece of paper against my chest before storming out the front door. I look down at Bubbles and sigh. She just wags.
“You’ve really done it now,” I murmur. “Wait!” I call out, chasing after Henrietta. “I’ll give you a raise!” She doesn’t stop, just keeps moving with that strong, even confidence she always has. “A big raise!” I add.
That makes her pause. She turns to glare at me.
“You’ll give me an excessive raiseanda paid vacation. And you’ll find someone to manage that dog full-time! I didn’t sign up for this, you know!”
“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry. I promise, I’ll find someone first thing tomorrow. Take the night off. I’ll clean up.”
Henrietta squints at me, her lips pursed while she thinks about it. Behind me, I can hear John trying to wrangle Bubbles. I don’t think it’s helping my case, but I don’t turn around.
“Fine,” she sighs, her dark eyes going soft. Henrietta drags her suitcase back up the front walk. “And I’m taking a bottle of wine from the cellar. Something good.”