Chasing Stanley (17 page)

The man on the couch slapped his thigh. “Yo, dog, I wish someone would come by
my
place with some soup when I was hungover!”

Delilah stared at Jason in confusion. “He—you—you're not sick?”

The man on the couch chuckled. “He was sick this morning, all right. On your knees praying to the great porcelain god, weren't you, Mitchell?”

“Shut the hell up, Thad, okay?!” Jason snapped over his shoulder. His expression was desperate as he turned back to Delilah. “Let me explain.”

“No need. You were hungover. You blew me off. You sent Eric. You told him to lie to me and say you were sick. I understand.” She held the chicken soup out to him with a trembling hand. “Take this. If I eat it, I'll vomit.”

“Delilah, you have to let me explain.”

“No, I don't.” She kissed Stan's head. “Good-bye.”

“How about the
hair of the dog walker who bit you, bro?” Eric asked, offering Jason a beer.

Jason shook his head no and went back to cradling his head in his hands. He'd been at a loss for what to do when Delilah left his apartment. Plead? Chase after her? She didn't seem in the mood to listen to anything he had to say, and who could blame her? He booted Thad out, brooding alone for a while before showing up at Eric's.

“Do you think I should go over there?”

“Give her time to cool off,” Eric advised. “You should have just told her the truth, you know.”

Jason's head snapped up. “What? That the Blades kicked ass out on the ice and our postgame celebrations got a little carried away?”

“Yeah. How could it have hurt? You could have apologized, said you were sending me, and that would have been the end of it.” Eric shook his head. “I knew this was going to bite you in the ass.”

“If you knew, why did you let me do it?” Jason snarled.

“I was helping you out, you asshole. You should have heard yourself on the phone! You sounded pitiful.”

“Yeah, well, you'd sound pitiful, too, if you did so many tequila shots you were seeing triple.” Jason returned to cradling his head, which felt like a thirty-pound pumpkin. “I let her down.”

“Not completely: you sent me. And by the way, I'd like that five hundred dollars in small bills, please.”

Jason wasn't listening. “What if she won't talk to me?”

“She'll lighten up. You've got to impress her with a big gesture. Chicks love the big gesture.”

“You know, for someone who loves dispensing advice about women, I never actually see you with any. When's the last time you had a girlfriend?”

Eric stretched out his legs and folded his arms across his chest. “I'm a rollin' stone, my man. Valedictorian of the School of Love 'Em and Leave 'Em. These boots were made for—”

“Please shut up.” Jason closed his eyes. The headache he thought he'd vanquished earlier in the day seemed to be punching its way back with a vengeance. “You were saying?” he eventually asked, rubbing his temples. “About the big gesture?”

“You've got to do something that will really blow her away. She loves dogs, right?” Jason nodded. “Get her a puppy!”

“I'm not going to get her a puppy!” Jason scoffed. “She's already got three dogs!”

“What about jewelry? Jewelry always goes over big.”

“She's not my girlfriend. I can't buy her jewelry.”

“Flowers?”

“Maybe flowers.”

“Flowers say you care,” Eric agreed facetiously.

Jason cracked open an eye; Eric was smirking.

“The thought that you and I share the same genetic material scares the shit out of me,” said Jason.

“Hey!” Eric unfolded his arms and lurched forward. “I saved your sorry ass today!”

Jason deflated. “You're right.” He continued rubbing his temples. It wasn't helping. “How'd that go, by the way?”

“Let's just say I earned every penny of what you owe me.”

 

 

Delilah was miserable
as she made her way to pick up Stan for his walk. Though Jason was at practice, there was something about returning to the scene of her humiliation of two days previous that had her choking back tears. She should have known better than to just show up at his apartment.

Things could have been worse: he could have forgotten about brunch entirely. Still, if he knew he had to be somewhere Sunday morning, why hadn't he taken care not to overindulge the night before? Was she that forgettable?

“See, this is why I like you better,” she explained to Chucky, a shepherd, and Cinderella, a Great Dane, whom she picked up before Stanley. “You don't lie. You don't let people down.”

Entering Jason's building, Delilah guided her charges into the elevator, pressing the button for Jason's floor. What if she'd read Jason's schedule incorrectly, and he was there? She squared her shoulders. So what? She'd come for Stanley, not him.

Delilah opened the door to Jason's apartment. As always, Stanley was sitting right there waiting for her, his wagging tail sweeping the floor. Delilah did a double take: there was a small gift-wrapped box dangling from his collar along with his tags. Stanley lumbered to his feet and while the three dogs merrily sniffed each other's butts, Delilah removed the box, pondering it as she held it in her hand. If she opened it, she was forgiving Jason. If she left it on the kitchen table, she wasn't. Torn, she kept staring. Then she remembered: she needed to play an active role in her own destiny. Did she really want to end things before they'd even begun? She looked at Stan, whose tail resumed wagging the minute their eyes met. “Your master is a jerk, you know that?” Delilah told him.

Nervous, Delilah's fingers gently tore open the package. Inside were two reserved seats for the Manchester Kennel Club Dog Show at Met Gar. But that wasn't all: there were also two coveted backstage passes as well. Delilah gasped loudly. Immediately the gaze of all three dogs shot to her.

“No need to worry, guys,” she assured them. “I'm just a little overwhelmed, is all.” She tucked the tickets into one of the compartments in her fanny pack and picked up her charges' leashes. “It's a beautiful day outside. Let's go for a walk.”

 

 

“I guess this
means you've forgiven me?”

Jason found himself shouting in Delilah's ear as they strolled—or tried to—around the dog show. Hockey fans had nothing on these dog people. If one more person accidentally elbowed him, rudely pushed past him, or stepped on his foot, he was going to lose it. The only thing saving him from going ballistic was the beatific expression on Delilah's face as they jostled their way along. Delilah seemed determined to check out every stall lining the walls, selling everything from waterproof booties to diamond-studded collars.

Jason kept his skepticism to himself as Delilah chatted with a rotund woman in a booth selling something called Seameal. The woman wore a black sweatshirt covered in tiny images of dachshunds. Silver dachshund earrings dangled from her ears. The chair from which she'd just risen boasted an embroidered cushion with the image of a dachshund on it. Jason imagined sitting on a cushion bearing Wayne Gretzky's face and suppressed a snort.

Delilah carefully perused the plastic bottle the woman handed to her. “Thank you,” she said politely, returning the supplement to the woman before tugging on Jason's hand, indicating they should move on.

Jason kept his fingers woven through hers and held tightly, fearful of her getting swept away in the momentum of the crowd. “You still haven't answered my question,” he pointed out.

“About forgiveness?”

Jason nodded.

She squeezed his hand. “Of course I forgive you. Just promise it won't happen again.”

“I promise,” said Jason. She'd said “again.” That meant the dog show wasn't a one-shot deal.

“Can we go backstage now?”

Jason hesitated. What he really wanted was to duck outside for some fresh air and follow it up with a nice, greasy hot dog from a street vendor. But the eager expression on Delilah's face made it impossible for him to refuse. “Sure,” he said. “Let's go.”

The backstage area was less crowded, but that didn't mean it was any quieter: Jason could barely hear himself think above the whir of the hair dryers. There were dogs the size of pigeons sitting atop ironing boards, being lovingly groomed; dogs with their hair in curlers; dogs getting their teeth brushed. Jason locked eyes with a large brown poodle whose owner was baby-talking while teasing its hair into a pompadour the size of a tsunami. “Who's daddy's coco baba boy, hmmm? Who's daddy's piggly wiggly devil dog?”
Just kill me now,
the dog's expression seemed to say. Poor bastard. Jason couldn't believe the humiliation these poor creatures were being subjected to.

He scanned the room. “Where's the Newf?”

Delilah's eyes lit up. “C'mon, we'll find it.”

They wandered the backstage area until they finally came to a large banner hanging on the concrete wall that said “Working Dogs.”

The Newf, named Abel, sat regally behind a bench, being adored by a passel of adults and children. He was chocolate brown, not black like Stan. But his expression was just as friendly and lovable.

“Would you like to shake paws?” his owner asked Jason as he and Delilah drew nearer.

“No, thank you,” said Jason. Shake paws? Did this
yutz
think they were five years old? Abel's coat was trimmed and gleaming, his nails immaculately clipped and shaped. He smelled vaguely of strawberry.
Poor bastard,
Jason thought again.

“You know, Stan could look like that if you brushed him out more often,” Delilah pointed out.

“Stan's not a pansy.”

Delilah shushed Jason as she led him away. “I can't believe you said that.”

“I can't believe what some of these people are doing to these dogs!”

“I know,” Delilah admitted in a low voice. “The owners are just trying to give the crowd a little something extra.” She glanced around anxiously. “We should probably get to our seats.” She seemed almost flirtatious as she stood on tiptoes and placed a tiny peck on his mouth. “This is the best present anyone has ever given me. Seriously.”

He drew Delilah to him. “You call that a kiss?”

Delilah glanced around, embarrassed. “Jason . . .”

“No sweat,” he assured her as released her from their embrace. “We'll wait till after the dog show to make out.”

Delilah blushed, but he knew he had her.

 

 

“Su-ki! Su-ki! Su-ki!”

Jason shook his head in disbelief as the Manchester crowd chanted the name of a Chinese crested circling the ring with its handler. Most of the crowd—some formally attired—appeared seriously invested in the outcome. Even Delilah was sitting on the edge of her seat.

“That dog looks like a powder puff with toothpicks for legs. In fact—”

“Sshh. I'm trying to watch.”

“Sorry.”

Jason forced his tired eyes back to the show ring. He couldn't believe he'd be sitting through two nights of hearing things like, “The dappled Tunisian rat catcher first came to these shores in 1814 . . .” Still, one look at Delilah's face, and he knew it was worth it. Getting the tickets and backstage passes from the Met Gar staff had been easy. Waiting and wondering if she'd accept them had not. When he returned home to find the gift gone and a note on the table that said “Call me,” he'd pumped his fists and whooped so loudly he frightened Stanley. The “big gesture” had worked.

He'd been an unthinking idiot. He felt horrible about blindsiding Delilah the morning of the brunch. The look of betrayal on her face had been devastating. But Delilah—beautiful, shy, softhearted Delilah—had forgiven him. He vowed never again to let her down that way.

“The Maltese is a fearless animal, loyal beyond compare . . .”

Jason blinked at the sound of the announcer's voice and dragged his gaze back down to the “action” in the ring. A dust mop with two button eyes was anxiously waiting to strut its stuff. Drowsy, Jason let his eyes drift shut. He'd open them when they announced the Newf.

“ I can't believe
you fell asleep!”

Delilah affectionately punched Jason's shoulder as they entered his apartment. She'd been so absorbed in the dog show she failed to register Jason's trip to dreamland until he startled himself awake with a window-rattling snore. He stayed awake for the rest of the competition, but Delilah could tell it was a struggle.

“I can bring Marcus with me tomorrow night instead if you want,” she offered, handing him her coat to hang up.

Jason looked wounded. “No way. I don't want to miss the Newf. I loved being at the dog show. I just need to, you know, make sure to have some coffee with me or something.”

Delilah was skeptical. “If you say so.”

She calmly petted Stanley's head, waiting for a cue from Jason what to do next. When he'd asked her back to his place, she'd hesitated, but then said yes. It was time she started paying attention to instinct.

“Why don't we sit down?” Jason asked. Together they started in the direction of the couch, Stanley right on their heels. “Stan, down,” Jason commanded. Delilah was impressed when Stan actually obeyed.

“Do you want any wine? Coffee?” Jason offered.

Delilah shook her head. “No, thanks.” One would make her hyper, the other knock her out. She wanted to stay on an even keel.