2. Gianni

Chapter two

Gianni

Monday, February 10, 2025

W e have to take a lot of back roads once we get out of the perimeter of the city. After about a half hour of driving, we pull up to a gravel road with cottage-style homes on the right and a one-story building with glass walls directly ahead of us. Leafless cherry trees are to the left, and a stone-paved walkway leads from the parking lot to the front door.

I open the trunk, and based on the look on her face, I made the right decision by taking my poor, sweet girl to get help. Her tummy looks like it might be a bit distended already, and her eyelids look heavy. She’s got a bit of drool hanging from her jowls, and it’s clear she’s not feeling well. “Come on, pretty girl, let’s get you inside so you can feel better, okay?” I coo to her, keeping my voice gentle. She lifts her head, acting as pitiful as possible, and a wave of anxiety hits me. God, please don’t let anything happen to this damn dog .

I lean over her, picking her up as gently as I can, grabbing her blanket to cover her as the snow starts falling in thicker sheets around us. I’m about to close the trunk when I hear her whimper, her eyes glued to the trunk as she gazes over her shoulder. And, of course, she’s looking at her fucking stuffy. I shake my head at her, grabbing her stuffy and tucking it under my armpit as I support her giant body with one arm, closing the trunk and locking the Jeep Wrangler.

As we approach the doors, a short woman with a straight black bob comes rushing toward us, swinging the door out and holding it open. “Hi! You must be Gianni.” Her eyes land on Pickles curled up in my arms, and she gushes over her. “Oh my gosh, and this little bundle of love must be Pickles! Oh goodness, Pickles, you don’t look so good, but we’re gonna have you feeling better in no time!” Her voice is high-pitched, and I internally cringe, having the same reaction to the way she speaks as I would to nails on a chalkboard. I know she’s just being nice, and I imagine that kind of baby talk comes with the territory of working with animals all day, so I give her a small smile before heading to the counter to check in.

“I’ll be with you in just a sec,” the young blonde at the counter says without looking up at me. The woman who opened the door for me comes around the desk, whispering in the blonde’s ear so quickly that I can’t make out what she’s saying. The blonde’s head pops up from whatever she is doing, her eyes wide with surprise, before she quickly recovers, plastering a grin on her face. She gives me a slow perusal, visibly ogling me, and it makes my skin crawl. I’m officially losing my patience.

“What can I do for you, handsome?” she drawls, continuing to eye fuck me .

I huff with frustration. “I called about thirty minutes ago. Pickles ate a chicken bone, and she needs to be seen.”

Her eyes dance with laughter, her cheek twitching. “Oh yeah, I remember your call. A crow dropped a chicken bone in front of your dog’s face for her to eat?” she says with disbelief and amusement. “When did this happen exactly?”

“Just before I called,” I tell her, refraining from rolling my eyes at her blatant mockery.

“Crows aren’t nocturnal. Everyone knows that. If you gave your dog a chicken bone, you can just say that, silly. You don’t need to lie ; we all make mistakes,” she tells me. I hope this isn’t her failed attempt at flirting because she’s going to be single for a long time if so.

I bristle regardless. “I didn’t feed her a fucking chicken bone.” My temper has officially flared, my patience worn so thin that I let the next words fly out of my mouth with little regard for the regret I'm bound to feel later. I'll let the guilt consume me as I try and fail to sleep tonight. “Do your damn job and check her in so she can see someone who can actually help her instead of eye fucking me and wasting my goddamn time.”

The room, once filled with chatter and the occasional yipping dog, goes silent. Those in the waiting area with pets are holding their breath, shocked that I’d speak to someone like that. Frankly, I'm shocked too.

The blonde’s dark brows shoot up her forehead in surprise before she sputters, “I… I wasn’t, um, I wasn’t doing that. I’ll, uh, get you checked in.” Then she mutters, regaining some of her earlier bravado, “You don’t have to be such a dick though. ”

“Oh, shut up, Valerie. You should be able to get arrested for the way you were molesting this poor man with your eyes. And he’s right, do your damn job for once ,” the black-haired woman from earlier says.

It’s my turn to be shocked. Her voice is far less annoying to me now. I meet her dark eyes with my own, giving her the warmest and most genuine smile I can muster before saying, “Thank you. I’m sorry for causing a scene.” My eyes cast downward toward the giant lump of fur in my arms. “I just want my pretty girl to get help, and I wasn’t expecting to be accosted when I checked in.” I’m not about to pussyfoot around the fact that this Valerie woman was being inappropriate.

“I completely understand. There’s absolutely no need to apologize, and Val here was just heading out, weren’t you, Valerie?” she asks the blonde with a now-harsh quality to her voice.

Valerie is clearly still stunned. Stammering, she grabs her things and makes her way around the counter.

The other woman leans across the desk to offer her hand. “I’m Betty. I’ve got Pickles all checked in, and Dr. Hughes will be with you guys as soon as she can.” I shake her outstretched hand, thanking her again before taking Pickles to sit down.

The waiting room has been a revolving door of new people and new animals, and an hour later, I hear someone call for Pickles. I stand up abruptly, carrying her toward the person who called for her. “Hi, I’m Ryan. I’ll take you and Pickles back to an exam room.” She heads back, so I follow the petite brunette. Her white Crocs catch my eye, the jibbles in them almost making me laugh. I can’t make out what all of them are, but as I enter the room, I take a seat on the blue bench. Still holding Pickles, I get a better look and see that there are otters, dogs, and dinosaurs on her shoes. The absurdity makes me chuckle, and I guess that’s probably the purpose behind her strange attire. To bring some light to a place that is sometimes filled with grief as much as it is joy.

“So, Pickles, I hear a little birdy dropped a bone off for you. Poor thing. I’ve just gotta get some info from your daddy, and then Dr. Hughes will be right back to help you feel all better, okay?” She coos at her as she crouches down, squeezing Pickles’s cheeks regardless of the drool she’s now letting fall down her face in rivulets of slime.

She goes over some basic health history with me and then steps out to grab the doctor. A few minutes later, there’s a gentle knock at the door before a woman, who I assume is Dr. Hughes, steps into the room.

My mouth is agape, and it’ll take a forklift to pick it up off the floor. Dr. Hughes isn’t some wrinkly older lady with graying hair. She’s the most gorgeous woman I’ve ever laid eyes on. She’s short, maybe five foot two, and her skin is a creamy porcelain, with light freckles dusting her cheeks. Her crimped waves of glossy, fiery auburn hair cascade down her chest.

When I finally raise my eyes to meet hers, she’s looking at me with wide hazel eyes that look like a churning pot of emerald green, honey, and rust.

I realize I’ve been staring for longer than what would be considered socially acceptable, my mouth snapping closed before I recover. “Hi, sorry, it’s um, it’s just really late, so I’m tired. Social skills are a bit off at this hour,” I tell her with an awkward chuckle that sounds foreign coming from my mouth. “I’m Gianni, and this pretty girl is Pickles.” I gesture at the melted pile of fur, who’s now peering up at me from my lap.

“Hi, Gianni. I’m Dr. Hughes, but you can call me Lark.” She gives me a genuine smile that starts melting the edges of my ice-encased heart. My chest is heating, my stomach filling with what might be butterflies, but who knows? It’s the shit you hear people describe in movies, but for all I know, it might just be anxiety. Or heartburn? I’m about to be thirty-one next month. Thirty-one-year-olds get heartburn, right? We had red sauce for dinner, so it’s probably just that, and I’m overanalyzing this feeling.

She’s standing so close to me, petting Pickles as she lifts her lips, inspecting her gums and palpating as she works her way down her body to her abdomen. Her scent is intoxicating, like an orange cream isicle or something equally as sweet and delectable as she looks. The closer she gets, the more foggy my mind becomes. What the hell is happening to me?

“Okay, sweet girl, your daddy is gonna have to plop you on this table for me so I can get a better look at you.” I stand obediently, and Dr. Hughes takes the pink blanket and stuffy from me, placing it on the metal table in front of us. I place Pickles on top, and she groans.

Leaning down, I kiss her soft head and whisper to her, “You’re gonna be okay, pretty girl. The pretty lady doctor is gonna make you feel all better.” I’m rubbing her velvety ears when I finally look to my side and see Dr. Hughes staring at me with an inscrutable expression.