7. Citrus Soap

seven

Cam

"Has there been any movement on this… Violet scenario?"4

Dr. Burton's cheery face fills the screen of my laptop. In my not-so-humble opinion, it's too cheery for this particular topic of conversation.

"No," I shrug, an uneasy tension settling in the pit of my stomach, "I think there's a mutual understanding that we'll just pretend it never happened."

Dr. Burton nods, scratching his chin. "Have you given more thought to quitting then?"

The most subtle smile creeps across his face, and it irritates me knowing that, when he said I should wait a bit longer before resigning during our last session, he was completely right. I hate it when he's right. My teeth sink into my lower lip irately as I suck in a steady stream of air.

"I'm not going to quit," I say, watching as that subtle smile turns broad.

"And you're content with that decision?"

I don't even have to think about my response. I am completely and utterly in love with the salon.

"Very."

"Good, good. And what about operation… What was it? ADHD? Is that still going?"

My cheeks grow pink as I stifle my laugh, holding up a finger to correct him.

"A.D.D., and no. I don't think we're going back to that for a very long time."

Dr. Burton scribbles something on the little blue notepad in front of him, and it takes everything in me not to ask what it is.

"That's understandable," he says, clicking his pen once. "Is this because of Violet? Or are there other outliers influencing your decision?"

I know what Dr. Burton is trying to get at when he mentions "other outliers." But this has nothing to do with that. This isn't fear of change or of having an unattached hookup anymore. It's just about the fact that everything that could have gone wrong in that situation, did.

"Just Violet," I answer definitively. Dr. Burton raises a bushy eyebrow but doesn't press any further. Thankfully, he changes the subject. "If you're willing, I would like to check in about the nightmares. Does the Prozac seem to be mitigating that?"

I hate this subject so much that I almost wish he would go back to talking about my failed bar bathroom boss hookup. Almost.

I don't think I've had a good night's sleep in the last five years. The issue doesn't lie with going to sleep. I can fall into a comatose-like state only moments after lying down. My issue lies in the fact that, while my body is unable to move and my eyes are unable to open, my brain decides to trap me with flashing montages of every terrible thing that could ever happen. Food poisoning, public speaking, cars crushed into tiny, unrecognizable pieces of metal.

The Prozac is supposed to help with that.

Unfortunately, I wouldn't know if it's working or not because I accidentally forgot it exists. My lips roll inward, which I know is all too telling.

"Cam, we've talked about this. You need to actually use these tools to see if they'll help. Doing nothing will do nothing."

I wave him off, even though he has a very valid point. "I know, I know. I'll try and start it tonight. I just…what if I'm allergic to it or something?"

A soft sigh slips through his lips, and he looks at the camera, which is the virtual therapy version of eye contact.

"Well, you haven't been allergic to any other medication you've taken, and most have a similar compound. So, I don't think that's something that needs to be considered."

My brows knit together. "But it's in The Realm."

The Realm of Likely Possibilities, or just The Realm, is a term Dr. Burton uses to separate likely scenarios from unlikely scenarios. While unlikely scenarios are still possible, they aren't probable. I don't really understand it. To me, if anything is possible, it is likely to happen. Dr. Burton shakes his head.

"Fortunately," he says, fidgeting with the pen in his hand. "It is not." I personally fail to see that, but okay, Doctor. "I'll see you next week?"

I nod, as if that ever changes. "See you then."*

Ithink this place was made for me. Or maybe I was made for it. Since the Furry Friends salon is a one-woman operation, I'm allowed to do things my way. The freedom feels good.

When The Dog Shop first hired me as a trainee, I couldn't have been more ecstatic. The thought of helping dogs as a career was everything I could ever want.

Although I've never excelled at painting or drawing like Adrian, I love art, and this is a niche form. Like humans, I believe each dog has a specific look. I'd spend hours carving different hairstyles into different dogs to match their personalities. Some were meant to look like teddy bears, others like elderly men who smoke cigars and read newspapers. I even made a Pomeranian look like a member of the band KISS.

But it wasn't just the art that I fell in love with, it was the neglected dogs too. Some pups would come in with fur pelted to their skin. I can't even count how many flea baths I gave in the summer. Dogs' nails would curl into the pads of their paws, breaking the flesh. I had the opportunity to help those dogs, and to show them love.

But after months of learning, practicing, and experimenting, management began to crack down. Once I had the necessary knowledge for the position, I was indebted to the company, forced to work long hours with short breaks. Each day consisted of various Catch-22s: Take a lunch break, or finish the dog on time? Upset the customer by going too short, or potentially nick the pup trying to cut through the mats? Get unapproved overtime, or give a choppy haircut?

Even as a strict-rule follower, there was no way I could follow every rule at once.

At first, I thought I was beginning to hate it. But it didn't take long to realize that I didn't hate my job. I hated my employer. I actually loved my job.

Pine Paws Animal Sanctuary partnered with the location to provide full grooms for the animals in their care. Knowing I was helping them made me feel like I was doing some good for the world. I couldn't get that same sense of accomplishment from answering phone calls or serving food. Not to mention, working with dogs meant my hours were spent with canines instead of people, which obviously is a win on its own.

Although I don't own it, the salon at Furry Friends feels like mine. I get to make my own rules, using the equipment I like and the techniques I find safe.

My knees bend, squatting behind a large Bernese Mountain Dog as I place my hands under his hips and lift his back end into the stainless-steel tub.

"You should learn to ask for help, or you're going to break your back."

I jump back, startled by the familiar voice. Something about the coarseness of it melting with an angelic tone manages to seep into every wrinkle in my brain. I turn around to see Violet standing against the wall behind me, her bottom lip tucked between her teeth and her arms crossed. Her eyes dart from the floor to my face. For a moment, I think she may have been checking me out. But the thought quickly leaves when I remind myself where we are, and who sheis.

In truth, I've been trying to avoid her these past two weeks. If she were going to bring up Monsey's she would have by now; I know that. But that doesn't eliminate the embarrassment of the situation. It doesn't fix the twist in my stomach every time I see her walking through the facility, or the annoying pulse between my thighs every time those tattooed arms flex. I didn't just hook up with my boss. I had a failed hookup with my boss. And somehow, that is so much worse.

"You should learn not to sneak up on people," I reply. Violet lets out a quiet chuckle as she approaches the tub. Her hand presses to the dog's head.

"Are you being a good boy, Leo?" She ruffles the feathers behind the dog's ears, his humorously long tongue hanging out the side of his mouth. I turn the water on and tediously adjust the handles to ensure it's the proper temperature. Violet continues loving on Leo as she leans against the metal bath.

"What are you doing?" I ask suspiciously. Violet has been, at least I thought, avoiding me too. I've noticed it: the quick glances through the window and the awkward hesitation before she checks in on the dogs in the salon. I don't know whether to be grateful for it or to simply let the humiliation consume me.

"I'm the manager." Violet's head tilts ever so slightly. "Am I not allowed to check in on my employees?" Her tone is so serious, but there's a hint of a smirk tugging at the corners of her mouth.

"Technically," I say, moving the hose up and down Leo's body. Water flows over his thick black coat. "I'm an independent contractor."

Violet arches one of her perfect, pierced eyebrows, and her subtle smirk grows.

"But no," I add quickly, remembering that, regardless of the title, she has every authority to fire me. "No, you're definitely allowed to."

"Oh, well." She bends down, stretching out her arms, and I realize she is displaying an invisible curtsey, "If you say so."

Trying not to roll my eyes, I use my hands to glide through the layers, making sure each section of the fur is soaked. After briefly scanning my options, I grab a white bottle of shed-control shampoo. Winter coats are making their appearance, leaving the forgotten summer coats behind. Violet stands at the edge of the tub and watches, making me nervous this is some kind of test. I pump a generous amount of the clear, gelatinous substance into my hand, the aroma of citrus radiating from my palm, and do my very best to ignore her presence.

My fingers run through the dog's coat, fingertips softly brushing against his skin as I scrub him. Violet clears her throat.

"So, Lana's dad called and wants to know if you have room for another bath today. His wife is coming home from the hospital, and he wants to surprise her. I said I'd call him to let him know."

How do you say no to that?

"Lana...?" My mind shuffles through mental flashcards, failing to find one referencing the name "Lana."

"Yellow lab, about fifty-ish pounds, really sweet, light's-on-but-nobody's-home. I think she jumped on you in the lobby yesterday morning."

Why does she remember that?

"Oh! Lana! Uh..."

A loud clinking sound bellows from the tub, metal against metal. Our eyes dart to Leo, who has decided to vigorously shake his entire body. We try to shield ourselves from the wave, but it's too late. Warm soapy water washes over us in a wet surge.

"Leo!" Violet whines, using her sleeve to wipe suds off her face. She shakes her hands out, droplets flying in every direction, then looks up at me with an amused grin. "Well, I guess we're even then."

I think she's just as shocked about her comment as I am, because the second it leaves her mouth, the whites of her eyes go round and face grows red, her jaw snapping shut. Heat rushes to my cheeks, and I swear I could start to liquefy. I open my mouth, but I have no idea why. I have nothing to say.

If I acknowledge the comment, then we both recognize the situation. And if we both recognize the situation, that means it's real. And I'd like to keep pretending that it didn't happen. My lips press together in a flat, dissatisfied line. Violet's lips part again as she clicks her tongue awkwardly. I swear to God she is scared of silence.

"So...Lana?" she asks, scratching the back of her head.

"Right! Uh..." I continue to scrub Leo, my face itching from the suds still soaking into my cheeks. I scrunch my nose repeatedly, attempting to soothe the irritating sensation, but to no avail. My cheek lifts as I squint my left eye. I probably look ridiculous, but it doesn't matter. "Yeah, I should be able to swing that. ETA?"

Scrunch.

"He said he'd be back just before closing."

"Sounds good."

Scrunch.

"Are you okay?"

"Yeah, no I'm good, I just—"

Scrunch.

"I just have an itch and my hands are covered with soap."

A light laugh slips through her lips, and her eyes draw to mine. "Where?"

I close my left eye, bringing the joining cheek up as I squint. "This cheek," I reply desperately, as the itch intensifies.

Violet's hand reaches out toward my face. I remember how her fingers felt against my skin, dry and calloused, but also gentle and skilled. It's obvious that she puts them to work each day, the proof in the wear. I find that charming.

Violet's fingertip curls gently over my cheek, and her eyes move up to share a gaze with me.

"Did I get it?" She smiles, her eyes still locked on mine as her fingertip rests gently on my cheek. My stomach feels hot and fluttery, and I really need her to stop touching me. I swallow.

"Yup."

Her hand pulls away quickly, and air slowly seeps back into my lungs.

"Alright, well I'm going to go call Lana's dad," she says. "Thanks!"

With that, Violet promptly turns and walks out of the salon.