“I’m a little worried about leaving Goya,” she admitted, glancing over to where he was whipping his now fluff-free toy around. “We don’t know how he’s going to do in an apartment all alone. What if he barks and the neighbors complain?” Then, her voice sadder, “What if he thinks he’s being abandoned again?”
He would have to have that experience eventually. But I didn’t want her worrying about him, either.
“What if we drop him off with Zeno? He might eat more junk food, but he will be happy there. Zeno even invested in dog beds, bowls, and toys to occasionally dog-sit for my cousin Anthony.”
“I like that idea better,” she decided, giving me a sweeter smile. “Thanks. I know I’m being a pain in the—”
“There’s no world in which I’m going to think you’re being a pain in the ass because you care about your dog,” I cut her off. “It’s not that far out of the way to drop off Goya before we head to the storage unit.”
With that, she finished the dishes while I got showered and dressed, then she took her turn getting ready as I walked Goya again.
“Any new adventures?” she asked, meeting us down at the street. With a bag full of Goya’s toys, treats, and a brush ‘just in case he needs them.’
“Well, he scored a piece of hot pretzel when a toddler dropped it out of her stroller. So he was pretty happy about that.”
“You’ll eat anything, won’t you?” she asked just as a black sedan double-parked at our side, making her stiffen.
“That’s Gav,” I told her, reaching to open the backseat for her.
“Hey, Gav,” she greeted when we were all settled inside.
To that, Gav made a grunting sound.
“Don’t take it personally,” I told Blair. “Gav is allergic to social norms and good manners.”
“Luckily, I’ve had a lot of practice with curmudgeons. My father-in-law once didn’t speak to me for two months because I said I didn’t really care who won the baseball game,” she said, making Gav’s lips twitch the slightest bit.
“Don’t think I’m as bad as all that.”
“Oh, he is,” I countered. “What was it you said when I asked if you wanted to hit the gym with me? Something about you’d rather fight a raccoon in a porta potty.”
“In his defense, gym guys can be obnoxious.”
“See? She gets it. Besides, my luck, someone’ll be filming their reps or something and catch me in the background, looking as miserable as I feel, and it’d go viral and I’d get the nickname The Gym Reaper or some shit…”
“You’ve given that made-up scenario a lot more time than it deserves,” I said, shaking my head.
Whereas Zeno was our family’s optimist, Gavino was pure pessimism most of the time. He had a list of things he disliked about his fellow human beings that was taller than he was and included petty shit like: grown men who referred to their friend group as ‘the boys,’ influencers who pop onto a video saying they just want to talk about something ‘real quick’ then prattle on for sixteen minutes, and people who post vague, cryptic social media posts; then when people ask if everything is okay, demand people DM them (“Just spill your lame-ass drama, the fuck?”).
And that wasn’t even including his “totally normal” reasons for hating people: loud chewers, close walkers, people who do video calls while walking around the grocery store, those who use internet slang in normal conversations, and—perhaps most egregious of all in his mind—couples who use the term ‘hubby’ or ‘wifey’ seriously.
If you gave the guy paper and pen and told him to write everything about people that annoyed him down, he’d have a list as long as a pharmacy receipt. Both sides.
Actually, the damn pen would run out before he was done.
“I went to a Pilates class once,” Blair said. “And some girl chose a spot in the front and then set up a tripod. Which would, of course, film all the rest of us in our class. To, I imagine, post on her socials. It’s invasive. I know there’s no expectation ofprivacy in public places, but I don’t love that aspect of modern society.”
“See? She gets it,” Gav said.
And with those four words, I knew Gav had just officially given Blair his stamp of approval.
“Anyone else think it’s weird as fuck for him to have a storage unit all the way in Queens when he lived in Manhattan?” Gav asked after we dropped off Goya.
That was exactly what had been on my mind since Blair had told me the address.
“He claimed it was cheaper,” Blair said. “But how much cheaper could it be that would be worth hauling things on the subway or paying for cab fare?”
Yeah, that didn’t track.
