Madame X - Wilder Jasinda - Страница 46
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“If you had to say there was one thing you wanted right now more than anything, what would it be?”
“A shower. A long, hot shower. Comfortable clothes. And then something to eat.” I pause for a moment, and then blurt what feels like a secret. “Unhealthy food. Something greasy and satisfying.”
Logan smiles at me. “Easy enough. First stop, then, is Macy’s.”
I didn’t realize how wide my eyes could go until Logan led me on a dizzying tour of Macy’s department store. I was thoroughly lost within seconds, a few turns down one aisle and then another and I would have been hard-pressed to find my way out. Not that I would have minded, I think. I could have wandered endlessly, flipped through rack after rack of clothes, content to simply look, to simply see all the various things one could buy. Logan was ceaselessly vigilant, seemingly casual as he guided me from area to area, pretending to glance at a shirt or a dress while watching in every direction at the same time.
I choose plain, comfortable clothes: a pair of jeans, a shirt, undergarments, a pair of slip-on ballet flats. I don’t try anything on, merely guessing at sizes. Logan seems relieved when we’re back in his vehicle, and now he drives a less circuitous route across Manhattan to a quiet, narrow, tree-lined street with low brownstone houses connected to each other in a long row. He parks his truck beside a tree, which is ringed in brick, small lights buried in the mulch at the base of the tree. Three steps up, a key turned in a lock, and then there’s a loud beeping noise coming from a white panel on the wall just inside the door. Logan presses a series of numbered buttons, and the beeping stops.
“Disarmed,” a disembodied, electronic, vaguely female voice says.
There’s a wild, ceaseless barking coming from behind a door somewhere. Logan closes the door behind me, twists the knob to engage the deadbolt. “Come on in,” he says. “I’ve gotta go let Cocoa out of her room. She’s friendly, I promise. Exuberant in her welcomes, but friendly.”
I don’t have time to even panic before Logan vanishes down the hallway, opens a door, and the barking grows louder, louder, and then there’s a brown blur and the scrabble of sharp claws on hardwood.
“Cocoa, down, girl!” Logan shouts, but it’s too late.
A heavy warm wiggling barking licking mass slams into me, huge bear paws on my shoulders, a tongue slapping wetly on my face, and the dog’s weight plows me backward, topples me off balance, and then I’m on the ground, curled into a tight ball, fighting tears, fending off a crazy tongue, a paw on my shoulder, a cold nose shoving under my hands to get at my face.
I don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
I hear Logan laughing.
“Get her off me, Logan,” I manage to say, past the canine tongue that seems to be trying to see what I ate last via my throat, and how recently I’ve blown my nose via tongue-examination of my nostrils.
“Cocoa, sit.” Logan’s voice is hard, and sharp.
Immediately, the huge brown animal—which I recognize from Logan’s cell phone screen—stops licking me and sits on her haunches, whining in her throat.
“X, say hello to Cocoa.” He kneels down beside me as I lever myself to a sitting position on the floor, wiping at my face. “Tell her to shake, X.”
I stare at the dog suspiciously. “Will she try to eat me again?”
Logan laughs. “Eat you? She was just saying hi, in crazy puppy language.”
I give him side-eye. “Puppy? She’s the size of a grizzly bear, Logan.”
“She’s barely a year old, and not even eighty pounds yet.” He cuffs her ear affectionately, rubbing in circles with his thumb. “She’s a good girl, aren’t you, Cocoa?”
I give my still-damp face one last wipe with my forearm, and then twist on my backside so I’m facing the dog. “Shake, Cocoa.”
The dog lifts her paw, a goofy dog grin on her face. I take her paw and shake it as I would a man’s hand, and she barks.
“Tell her good girl,” Logan instructs.
“Good girl, Cocoa,” I say, and the dog immediately launches herself at me, tongue first. This time, I try what Logan did, making my voice sharp and hard. “Sit, Cocoa.”
“See?” Logan says, grabbing the dog around the neck and hauling her against his chest, letting her lick his chin, laughing. “She’s a good girl.”
Clearly, the man loves his dog. Something about this makes my heart twist, and melt. I don’t know what to do with myself as I watch Logan rub, pet, and kiss his dog as if she were a beloved child. Other than try not to melt, that is.
Finally, Logan stands up, wipes his face. “Gotta go outside, Cocoa?”
Cocoa barks and, with a clicking scrabble of claws, tears across the house to a back door and plants her haunches on the gleaming hardwood, thick tail flailing wildly, her head swiveling between Logan and the door. Logan pulls the sliding glass door aside, and Cocoa lunges through the opening as soon as it’s wide enough to fit her bulk. The outdoor space—which I hadn’t realized existed in Manhattan—is small but elaborate and beautiful. A small terrace of cobblestone, a round wrought-iron table with four chairs, a gleaming silver grill, and a plot of green grass maybe a dozen steps across, flowering bushes lining the back fence. Logan follows Cocoa out, and I follow him; we stand together, watching the dog prance around happily, circle three times, and then squat to do her business.
It’s quiet here. Even in the middle of the day, there is no babel of traffic sounds, no horns or grinding engines or sirens.
“This isn’t where I imagined you living,” I say, apropos of nothing.
“Expected some downtown high-rise, probably? Big views and lots of black marble?” He shoves a hand in his hip pocket, scraping at the cobblestone with his boot toe.
I nod. “Pretty much.”
“I had that, for a while. I hated it.” He shrugs. “Found this place, kind of by accident. Bought it, reno’d it myself, and adopted Cocoa. Having somewhere quiet to go, at the end of the day? It’s priceless. Having somewhere outside with some green and some privacy? Even more so. And Cocoa to keep me company . . . can’t get any better.” He glances at me. “Well, it could, but that’ll happen in time. I hope.”
Is he talking about me? He’s looking at me as if he might be. But I don’t know what to make of that, what to say to it, how to process it. This is unfathomable to me. A dog, a yard, peace and quiet. No view of the city, no endless parade of stories to invent, crossing thirteen stories beneath me. No expectations on my time. Choosing my own clothing. Discovering what I like . . .
It’s all too much. I’m choking on possibilities. I turn away, yank the glass door open, dart through, find the hallway and the open door showing me the bathroom. I don’t even bother closing the door behind me, I just collapse onto the lid of the toilet, face in my hands. My shoulders heave, and I feel tears sliding down.
I don’t know why I’m crying, but I can’t stop it.
I jump a mile into the air when I feel a cold nose touch my cheek. She doesn’t lick me or bark or jump on me, she just lays her chin on my knee. I laugh through my tears at her expression, wide dark eyes gazing at me, as if she could somehow commiserate, as if she’s trying to communicate to me. Comforting me with her presence.
And it works.
I bury my fingers in her soft, silky, short, chocolate-brown fur, scratch her floppy ears, pet her thick neck.
“See what I mean?” Logan’s voice, from the doorway. “There’s a reason we call dogs ‘man’s best friend.’ This is why.”
I sniffle and feel a fresh wave of tears flow over me, hide my face against Cocoa’s shoulder and cry on her; her only reaction is to put her chin on my shoulder and very gently lick the lobe of my ear.
Eventually, it passes. I look up, and Logan is sitting on the floor beside me, legs stretched out, back against the wall.
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