Chapter 2

"Yo, B Money!" Vonnie's voice, booming and rich, echoed through the shop as the front door flung open and her rambunctious Great Dane, Maxine, fumbled her way in.

From the counter where I sat stocking the register with the day's cash, I watched Vonnie groan and huff, tripping over Maxine, who was approaching two years old but had lost none of the playful energy of a six-month-old puppy. Vonnie's nickname for me, BMoney, or sometimes, simply B, gave context to our relationship in my mind, that single-syllable, single-letter reference succinct in relaying our familiarity with one another. Our closeness.

"V Dub!" A hushed chuckle escaped me as I watched the scene play out. "You need some help?"

"Nah, I'm good. This bitch is just being difficult today."

As they approached, I couldn't hide my amusement over Vonnie's struggle. Maxi—what we typically called her—eventually broke from the grip Vonnie had on her leash and bounded toward me, knocking a few items from the shelves in the process. The giant dog somehow landed in my lap, dancing around, panting, tongue hanging from the side of her mouth, excited just to be alive. In her first year, Maxi had reached one hundred pounds, and since then, she had added another forty onto her hefty frame. The pressure she put on my legs as she pressed her weight into me forced me to brace myself against the wall behind me, nearly tumbling from my stool.

"Hey, little lady," I cooed, rubbing her head and scratching behind her ears as she leaned her full weight into me. I then shifted my attention back to Vonnie. "How was your night?"

She snickered. "Crazy. I had this little girl blowing up my phone, trying to get me to go over to her place to fuck her and her boyfriend."

I couldn't help but laugh in response to the ongoing drama of Vonnie's romantic life. Her cup seemed to runneth over in that department. "Did you do it?"

"You serious?" she accused, forcing an intense cackle to erupt between us. "I don't like little girls playing on my phone, and I don't like dick." Vonnie leaned over the display case that doubled as the checkout counter, planting her elbows on the glass top and balancing her chin between her fists. Long, tightly twisted braids fell to the sides of her face, obscuring her prominent cheekbones, the ones that sublimely protruded like box seats at the theater, commanding and regal. She stared at me with big brown eyes, facetiously blinking her lids, putting on a production with her thick lashes. "How about you? How was your night?"

"Well, I do like dick," I announced, an unnecessary affirmation on my part. "And there was dick all over Midtown. But I didn't get any." I had no intention of telling her about the mystery man I jerked off to. It meant nothing, and she wouldn't care. It wasn't real.

"Boy," she started in that all-knowing tone she typically carried. "How many times do I have to tell you? There will always be dick, and there will always be dicks all over this neighborhood. But you're not looking for either of those."

I'd known Vonnie for five years, and she could read me like a book. I scoffed and returned my focus to counting the cash.

"B!" she continued more aggressively, forcing my attention. "My point is that you're not gonna find what you want if you're only looking for dick. You gotta put yourself out there. Meet people. Get to know them. Then fuck the shit out of them."

Subdued laughter passed between us as she wrapped up what could only be called her best attempt at a pep talk. She was right. I knew it. It was just easier said than done. "Yeah. I guess."

"Maestro here?" she asked.

"Upstairs."

"Cool. You know where to find us." She started for the stairwell beside the counter that led to the office and grooming stations upstairs. "C'mon, Maxi!"

Yvonne "Vonnie" Watkins, the first person I'd hired at City Paws, carried herself with an air of what-you-see-is-what-you-get, an unapologetic sense of self-worth that seemed foreign to me. She opened her interview with "I like dogs and not much else." I knew then that I would hire her, with or without the ten years of grooming experience she had. Her aversion to simple human interaction might possibly be stronger than mine, descending the shop steps only to return freshly bathed canines to their owners. A potent mixture of Chicago's west side and Atlanta's south in her blood, her words landed with all the subtlety of a meteor striking the earth's surface. That's probably why we got along so well. She reminded me of a hardened New Yorker, the kind with the get-outta-my-way and I-don't-have-time-for-this attitude I'd grown up with.

Maxine spun around and quickly followed Vonnie up the stairs as gracefully as a dog of her size could. She and Maestro regularly spent their days hanging out together on two large beds that were kept in a small, gated area for dogs waiting to be groomed or waiting to be picked up. The space upstairs was only large enough for my office, a small bathroom, two grooming stations with tubs, Vonnie's supply cabinet, and that gated space we referred to as the waiting room. It wasn't much, but it was all we'd needed for the past five years.

Nine o'clock quickly approached, so I finished counting the cash, tossed the tray into the drawer, and walked to the large picture window at the front of the shop to switch on the Open sign. I didn't know why I even bothered to keep cash on hand anymore. Most of our customers paid by credit card or one of the payment apps I'd been forced to start accepting over the years. We were in Atlanta though, where drug dealers and adult entertainers were as plentiful as dogwood trees and luxury vehicles. They sometimes needed pet care too.

As I toggled the power switch on the back of the sign, illuminating the glass with the neon glow of blue and green light, I watched the neighborhood wake up. There was a coffee shop facing a breakfast spot at the entrance of the park just up the street, and joggers and caffeine addicts alike made their way up Grove Avenue, meeting their counterparts at Tenth Street. Some pushed baby strollers, and some walked dogs. Others quite clearly ambled along on a walk of shame, sauntering and shuffling, mussed hair, wrinkled party clothes, and dark circles under the eyes giving away their guilt.

One person in particular caught my eye. Someone in the neighborhood usually did. Midtown was full of possibilities: gym rats, club kids, suits, boys next door. This particular daddy was just down the block, lightweight gray shorts framing his ass nicely. His back was turned to me, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. He was too far away for me to make out any specific features. He walked a Siberian husky that looked familiar. Sam had a husky—Sonny. He was a regular customer at the shop. But the guy down the block didn't look like Sam. I saw so many dogs that I could have been confused. They were crossing Grove at Tenth, probably on their way to Cedar Grove. It was the nicest park in the city, a weekend hangout for pretty much everyone. Just as he turned his head in my direction, they slipped behind a building on the corner. Just my luck.

"You'll offer luxury spa experiences for dogs; it'll set you apart from the competition," my ex said in his best attempt to offer what he thought was sound advice when I told him I wanted to open a pet supply store and grooming salon. Nate wanted me to offer grooming, organic pet food, and upscale pet supplies to the better-off queens with canine companions in the neighborhood, luxury services and products he believed would make the place more boutique, a more exclusive type of establishment for dogs. It was simply a guise to paint me in the light of the upper-crust set he ran with, the same set he believed governed the neighborhood. The aristocracy of Midtown, celebrity in their own minds. Dogs could give a shit about a luxury bath.

After we broke up, I added dog walking to the menu of services offered at City Paws, mostly to piss him off. "I think it would hurt the brand's reputation," he complained. I laughed. People worked nine to five and had a hard time leaving their offices in the middle of the day. Selfishly, I liked walking dogs. It got me out of the shop and into the open air for a while each afternoon. I hired a couple of part-time walkers, and even though it was a little different than the full-service "pet boutique" my ex had imagined, it was mine. We turned a profit.

Just then, the old-fashioned bell hanging above the front door clanged and jolted me from my thoughts, that frightening, vibrant world within the confines of my head.

"Hello, Brandon!" I heard in between a few high-pitched yelps as I turned on my heel to face the front door.

"Frank!" I called out with a smile, a brogue of East Coast persuasion proudly announcing itself to anyone listening. "How ya doin'?"

My favorite regular carefully led Daisy into the shop on a purple argyle leash. Frank maintained a standing spa day appointment for his pampered Shih Tzu every other Sunday.

"Oh, just lovely," a warm, silvery voice echoed, the slight warble reminding me of the typical, old-Southern-woman character one might find in a movie. "It's a beautiful day outside, and the girls and I are going for brunch in a while."

Frank tickled me with the way he spoke, a sublime optimism punctuating every word. His delivery was over-the-top, just like his dog. Two birds of a feather, I suppose. But I saw something in Frank that inspired aspiration in me; he was unarguably content, a gay man who wanted for nothing, felt no sense of shame, and seemed to harbor no regret. I didn't get it. "For over forty years," he would tell me often, his volume descending to a whisper so as not to give away his advanced age, "I prepared arrangements for weddings, wakes, and everything in between." He spoke of the floral design shop he owned for years, then sold, with a twinge of nostalgia but no longing sorrow. "I retired when I wanted to."

A quirky Victorian in the Garden District just a couple of blocks away, filled with antiques and painted every pastel color one could think of, served as Frank's home. Ornate, hand-crafted birdhouses hung from the branches of trees in his front yard, decorating the corner it occupied with even more color. He wore a beret over a full head of wavy gray hair and usually a scarf around his neck, no matter the weather. I heard his partner had died years ago, but Frank didn't talk about it, not to me. There was a mourning period. How could there not be? Maybe he had one of those moments of clarity one hears about, when a lightbulb switches on over someone's head, forcing them to assess their behavior, their demeanor, their own happiness. I was waiting for that to happen to me. I'd ask him about it one day, but today wasn't that day.

"That's nice." I used the most upbeat tone I could muster. I could put it on when I needed to.

"Yes, I'm sure it will be fabulous," he continued, gently touching my shoulder in the most innocent way. "How is business, dear?"

He asked me this question every time I saw him, but I was more than happy to oblige. "Good. Really good. New people are moving into the neighborhood every day, and the city's become really dog-friendly, so I can't complain."

"I know. I see more and more people walking dogs in the neighborhood all the time. It's so wonderful. Have you been to the dog park at Cedar Grove since they expanded it?"

"Yeah. Maestro loves to play with the other dogs. It's really nice now that they made it so much bigger."

"Oh, I know. It's marvelous, isn't it? And how are the boys?"

Changing the subject on a dime without sounding rude was Frank's forte, and I loved it. I tried to do it and sounded like a jerk, like I'd cut the conversation short. He always referred to my friends as "the boys," mostly because I don't think he could remember their names.

"They're good. Alex has been working on the interiors of that new hotel they're building on Fourteenth Street, and Calvin's been selling his furniture at street markets on the weekends."

"I know." He brushed my shoulder with his fingertips again. "He's so talented. I bought a chair from him not long ago. It looks so nice in my reading room."

An interior design firm hired Alex not long after he arrived in Atlanta, and he'd quickly made a name for himself among the well-to-do in the city. He could design a space with his eyes closed. Calvin worked in sales—some kind of medical records software—but started making furniture on the side a while back. He'd learned woodworking from his dad or an uncle. I couldn't remember. He was talented and motivated, traits I assumed would lead him to success no matter the field he entered.

"And the shop looks good as always," he continued without missing a beat as I remembered the toys Maxine had relocated with her tail moments earlier. "Listen, I'm sorry we're so early today, but I've got a few errands to run before brunch."

"It's no problem," I said, bending down to pick up the stray toys as I grabbed Daisy's leash from Frank's offering hand. "This one can hang out with Maestro and Maxi upstairs until Vonnie's ready for her."

"You're an angel, dear. You both are," Frank gushed as he turned to make his way to the front door. "And it was so nice catching up. I'll be back to get the princess in just a few hours!"

"Enjoy your brunch," I called out to the closing door as I scooped Daisy up in the crook of my arm. She fidgeted frantically and licked at my chin as I walked her up the steps to the grooming area. Halfway up, the doorbell rang again, echoing through the shop as another customer entered.

"Hello? Brandon?" the voice inquired as the unruly pitter-patter of puppy feet clamored around on the polished concrete floor.

"Be right there!" I shouted back.

Another busy day was slated and confirmed by the booking tool's calendar brightly displayed on the monitor at the front desk. Weekends would bring Midtown out to play, to brunch, to day-drink with abandon. Day-trippers hauled it in for leisurely afternoons at the park or botanical garden or art museum. Money would be spent as though it were a renewable resource, dogs dropped off for grooming appointments they didn't need, simply freeing up an hour or two for their owners to get into trouble. I wouldn't argue. The day's hustle would keep my mind off the fact that I was quickly approaching forty. Alone.

Alone. How did that simple, inconsequential word become the universal synonym for unhappiness? Brandon isn't dating anyone? Oh, that poor thing. Even at its best, the assumption among allies was that being alone meant one was lonely. I found myself inferring that as well.

Alex and Patrick had been together for years, healthy and happy. I knew better, but deduction led one to believe that Alex was unhappy before they met, alone and heartsick, even wistful. Alex had never been considerably lonely or consequentially unhappy in the time I'd known him, many of those years before Patrick had materialized.

My sister and her husband were head over heels for each other, but I didn't remember Gina drowning in loneliness before they met.

My folks had… they were… well, maybe they weren't the best example.

But, once thirty-five years had successfully passed me by, and after ending things with Nate, a switch flipped that triggered a flashing, neon, billboard-sized warning in my brain that begged me to couple, implored me to eschew unhappiness by balking lonesomeness. The mothers of the world had been conjured and unsolicited opinions slung with haste.

Alone, but not lonely, I repeated to myself. I had to, or I'd continue to hearken the critics. A social circle existed around me that very rarely allowed me to feel lonely. I had things. I was comfortable in my contentedness. Probably not like Frank, but Frank possessed years of wisdom I hadn't had time to collect. But I was almost forty. My years didn't pale in comparison. Alone, but not lonely, I repeated. Why couldn't I be happy like Frank? I desired too much to have someone to share things with, someone to wake up next to. I'd grown used to going it on my own, not unhappy but also not happy. Not lonely.

Alone, but not lonely.

Who was I trying to convince?

Years of fruitlessly dating the wrong people, hooking up with dead-end guys in vain (guys I'd hoped would want something more), and an extremely messy breakup with a self-centered narcissist had left me alone. People who broke my trust or broke my spirit, people who led me astray, who guided me with misgivings, all of them left me apprehensive and unwilling to let people in. I wasn't delusional. My trust issues were mine alone. I wallowed in them, swam in them when the pool water was too cold, soaked in them when my muscles ached. But what good could come from getting my hopes up when people had proved themselves to be hopeless time and time again?

What was I doing again? Right, my job.

Distraction had become a constant threat. Every fleeting thought introduced three more, and before I knew it, I was drifting through a murky, reminiscent existence of what if? and if only. What if I wouldn't have said that?If only I hadn't asked him to stay the night.What if I would have walked up to that guy I saw at the bar and introduced myself, his face buried in a phone or not? My sex drive had diminished, decreased in intensity, but the fantasies that made me desire love and sex and intimacy had been piquing. Those illusions had always hidden themselves behind shields of misguided judgment and expectation, clouded by ill-informed notions of what relationships should look like. They'd since burrowed their way to the forefront of my mind, begging and curious.

Two more customers entered the shop when I returned from dropping Daisy off with Vonnie. Good. That was the kind of distraction I could use. Making small talk and ringing up customers would surely keep my mind from spiraling. For a couple of hours, I was able to lose myself in work.

Then, the phone rang. I was organizing toys into a beach-themed window display for summer, doing my best to make it look festive and inviting. But the volume of the ring jarred me. It shook me to the core, sending a shiver down my spine so cold that my heart sped up. Something about that ring stuck me, jabbed at me with the uneasy prick of a pin. Something about that ring, that particular ring that on any other day at any other time probably wouldn't have taken me aback. But today, the deafening silence after that first ring and before the second penetrated me. Hollowed me out.

Where was the shop music? The music I always played softly in the background to cut the awkward silences. In my distraction, I must have forgotten to turn it on. All I could hear was the faint whisper of a slow RB track idly drifting down from Vonnie's grooming studio upstairs. She was probably playing it on her phone. Distraction.

Then, a third shrill ring. I pivoted and walked a few steps through the shop, stopping at the counter to look at the caller ID from above, freezing where I stood. I recognized the number. Four rings passed, then five, so shrill, so deafening. I finally grabbed the handset from the dock and pressed it to the side of my face, answering on the sixth.

"What do you want?" I brazenly asked, an uneasy monotone quality to my voice.

"What a way to answer the phone, Brandon. I'm sure your customers appreciate that level of service."

That voice. That honeyed, overconfident, familiar voice. My own adopted a terse and demanding demeanor, a hardened, gritting timbre I couldn't control. "Why are you calling me at the shop?"

"Because you won't answer your cell."

"You should probably take that as a hint, Nate."

Silence awkwardly hung from both ends of the line, but I wasn't going to waver. Five years had passed since we'd broken up, and at least once a year, sometimes more, he would call to tell me he needed me; work was stressing him out, or some guy he'd been seeing left him. It was always something. He was under some deluded impression that we'd become friends after the split. For a while, I, too, na?vely misunderstood our relationship as such. It's amazing the tricks that lending your half-hearted forgiveness to someone can play on you.

The first couple of times he called, I fell for his game and accidentally found myself back in the unhealthy throes of the relationship we once called ours. I loved him. Probably. Maybe. I would always care for him in some fucked-up way, but I wasn't going to let him lure me in again. The fact of the matter was that Nate Monroe did not know how to be friends. He simply knew how to pull the right strings to get what he wanted. I'd learned that could sometimes resemble friendship, no matter how noxious, how degrading it sounded.

"Look, I'm sorry…" Nate started.

"That'd be a first." I had to quip back or I'd be in danger of falling into his trap.

"I know, B," he finessed with his simple pet name for me. The same name my friends used. The one that felt good coming from them but like razor blades between my fingers when delivered from his stinging lips. The way he said it this time made me melt though, just a little. "I've just been thinking about you and the shop and… I've just been wondering how you've been."

"Why? Your latest conquest wise up and leave you?"

Another silence.

"Well, yeah, as a matter of fact. I mean, we were just in two different places in our lives. I should have known better." This was the part of the conversation in which he tried to make himself out to be the victim of his own bad judgment. He always played that part well. He was sweet and self-deprecating because he knew it made him endearing.

"Yeah. You probably should have, Nate."

"Don't be mean, B," he pleaded, charm and playfulness dancing off his velvet tongue and falling right into my open ear. I had to catch myself before I started playing along, opening the door to coffee or, even worse, a drink.

"I'm not being mean, Nate. I'm being honest. You're as bad at choosing partners as I am."

"Ouch. Brutal honesty. Where were you when I first met this guy?"

"Somewhere better." I needed to cut him, to shut him down. He would just keep agreeing with me and joking around and diverting course until I gave him a reason to shut up. That was his game, never allowing anyone to let him go just in case he needed them for something down the road. To keep the upper hand in every relationship he ever had. It was why he made such a good litigator. He could talk his way into or out of anything. He could manipulate innocent people into thinking they were guilty.

"Yeah, alright," he relented, sinking softly into self-pity as he danced on the edge of the cliff, coming so close to revealing an honest emotion. He was almost done. Even if I couldn't always avoid them, I'd learned how to keep these interactions brief.

"So, what do you want?" I asked again, brusquely urging him to either get to the point or get out of my life.

"I just wanted to… talk… to you."

"No. You just wanted someone to talk to."

"Well, yeah. So how about dinner? Or drinks? I'm buying."

"I don't need you to buy. I never did," I argued. It was just one more annoying trait he possessed. He always wanted to pay. He always wanted to show off his money, to make everyone else feel insecure about their own income so he could keep his perceived status as successful, important, and wealthy. I wanted to believe that he didn't know he was doing it, that it was just a nice gesture, but I knew better. The first chance he got, he would flash his black card at the waiter with a smug look on his face.

"I know that, B. I'm just trying to be nice."

"No, Nate. You're not."

"B…" he again whined playfully before I interrupted him.

"I have to go. I have customers," I barked before hanging up the phone more aggressively than I probably should have, catching a black metal card holder with my forearm and knocking it off the end of the counter, showering the floor with business cards for one of my vendors who bakes dog treats.

"You alright, B?" Vonnie asked from the landing at the top of the staircase, using the same friendly nickname that Nate had just used. The one that enraged me coming from him.

I wasn't, but I lied, "Yeah. I'm good."