I thought about Knight. About how he refused to open his adoption case. Last time we’d spoken about it, he’d said, “I have two functioning parents with their shit together. Why would I let some random walk into my life and mess it up?”
He had a point. But Knight wasn’t like me. He didn’t need answers. He dripped validation. He was vastly loved and admired by everyone we knew.
Edie turned around, giving me her back. She braced herself on the kitchen counter, thinking. I hated myself so much for putting her in this situation.
“I’ll hire a PI, but you have a week to tell you dad,” she announced metallically. “I’m not lying to my husband, Luna.”
As a gesture of good faith, I spoke the words to her, “Thank you.”
She dipped her finger into cookie dough on the glossy marble of the counter, licking the pad of her finger thoughtfully.
“Whatever it is you’re looking for, I hope it’s peace and not a relationship. She doesn’t deserve you, Luna. She never did.”
My perfect streak of avoiding Knight (and vice versa?) ended on a Wednesday afternoon, the day before Christmas Eve. I was headed down to the dog shelter on Main Street for a pre-Christmas adoption day, one of the busiest days of the year. Clad in my checked Vans, mustard-hued beanie, boyfriend jeans, and a cropped sweater that showed a hint of abs from all the cycling I did, I hugged Eugene and Bethany, the elderly couple who ran the shelter. Eugene had white caterpillar eyebrows and wore a uniform of suspenders and hiking boots. Beth was a willowy thing who was always on the move. I’d come in before the other volunteers to help clean up, arrange the refreshments on tables, and print out leaflets for prospective adopters.
Since Eugene and Beth didn’t speak sign language, I had to type on my phone to communicate with them. I’d been volunteering with them for many years, and communicating was never an issue, but today, they were squinting at my phone more than usual, rubbing their eyes when staring at the tiny text. I hadn’t considered that they were getting older.
My heart was drenched with sorrow. I tried to open my mouth and speak. The wall had been pierced—why not try again? But nothing came out. I closed my mouth, snagged a blank page from the printer, and wrote with a thick Sharpie, I’m so sorry. Maybe I should go?
Beth ripped the page in half while it was still in my hand, snapped her fingers together, and smiled.
“Our grandson, Jefferson, studied sign language. He’s going to become a speech therapist. Let me call him.”
The last thing I wanted was someone else added to the mix. As it was, the place was going to be teeming with people, my least favorite creatures to hang out with. But I couldn’t exactly shut down the idea, either. So I watched as Beth coaxed her grandson (rather aggressively) to stop by the shelter on his way back from the gym.
Half an hour before we opened the doors to the general public, the volunteers started trickling in. They were mostly faces I recognized, but that did nothing to calm my social anxiety. Most people smiled tightly when they saw me and made themselves scarce to keep things a little less awkward—for them, not for me. Not that I cared either way, as long as I was back to being my blissfully invisible self.
I was arranging leaflets on red-clothed tables when Beth shrieked behind me and said, “Oh, lookie here! My favorite English rose.”
My blood froze in my veins. I could practically feel whatever was left of my calm evaporating from my body, like mist, even before I heard Knight’s voice muttering, “Shit.”
Shit, indeed.
I resumed my leaflet arrangement, keeping my back to them, like nothing had happened.
So what if they were here? I’d been volunteering in the shelter for eight years, practically since I was a pre-teen. Today was going to be wonderful. Puppies and elderly dogs alike were going to find new, loving homes. I was going to make the most out of it. Besides, Knight and I had agreed on a truce.
“Knight Jameson Cole. How’s your mama?” Bethany bellowed behind me.
“Well, ma’am. Thanks for asking. And yourself?”
“Been worse.”
“But never looked better.”
“You little charmer.” She let out a hearty laugh. “Is that how he caught you, Miss Astalis? With his smooth tongue?”
“Ma’am, you haven’t the slightest clue,” Knight drawled.
I bit down on a grin and rolled my eyes. He’d gone there. In front of a senior citizen. The horn dog.
“He makes me so happy,” Poppy gushed, clapping her hands together.
I wanted to gag. The only thing stopping me, in fact, was Bethany calling for me to come say hello to my good, good friend.
We lived in a small town, where everyone knew Knight Cole and Luna Rexroth were a package deal. He’d come to the shelter with me so many times, his mere presence here with someone else felt like a slap in my face.
Truce, Luna. Truce. He’s not yours, remember?
Drawing a calming breath, I turned around and plastered on a polite smile as I made my way to them. I waved hello to Poppy and Knight just as the door behind them opened and a person I assumed was Jefferson walked in.
Everyone went silent.
Jefferson was, for lack of other words, uncomfortably stunning, even in his gym clothes, sweat making his shirt stick to his six pack. I’d always been drawn to people with distinctive faces—a scar, a crooked nose, chipped tooth. Anything imperfect went, as long as they were flawed.