How to Ruin a Wedding(50)
He pulls my arm when I try to leave. “We’ll talk once you’re back.”
“We don’t have to revisit anything,” I say, then pull away and join the girls, leaving Anders to think on that.
“I don’t need it,” I say, as Bethany holds up the thin, golden chain with a lily hanging on the thread.
“Then why do you keep staring at it?” she says.
An unexpected tag team, Olive pulls my hair into a ponytail, and Bethany clasps the chain around my neck. “It’s perfect on you,” she swears, spinning me toward the tiny mirror on the white-clothed table hosting dozens more delicate sets of jewelry.
The flower hangs at the center of my collarbones, and it’s the perfect shade of gold that doesn’t blend and dull against my tan skin. I finger the curves of it, admiring how lovely the detailing is.
“Lilies are my favorite flower,” I share, twisting it in my fingers. “I used to try and fail to plant them in our tiny little garden.”
“Well, you won’t have to worry about killing this one,” Bethany notes.
It really is perfect.
It’s also over a hundred dollars, and I had to run and check my bank account just ten minutes ago when I bought a tiny cup of shaved ice for Olive.
“I’ll think about it.” I unclasp it from my neck and hand it over to the beautiful old woman behind the table.
“I guarantee it’ll be gone by the end of the day,” Bethany warns. “Made the mistake of missing out on the most beautiful set of diamond earrings here.”
“I’ll risk it,” I say, pointing at a stand in the distance when I spot a giant sign on the side of it in the shape of a paw. “Mind if I take a peek at that stall?”
“Go on.” She gestures. “I see a coffee stand with my name on it.”
“I’ll go with you.” Olive loops her arm through mine.
We walked together through the park’s many sidewalks, both pathways of concrete lined with vendors selling handmade art pieces, photography, soaps, and candles. We’ve stopped at almost every single one, and Olive—ordered to by Bethany—has bought at least a single item to “support local businesses” at each and accumulated enough bags we had to make a trip back to the van to shove them in the back.
There are several speakers playing different songs, and at the very end of the path we walk stands a fountain with a tiny waterfall, where several men perform a dance, and I know after one flip Bethany will shove bundles of cash at the hat sitting across from them.
We pause at the tent with the paw sign. A banner hangs on their table that reads Paw Print Bakery. Two women sit behind the packaged treats for dogs and a couple of colorful collars.
But my gaze locks in on a woman around my age, with a round-shaped face and dark hair pinned up with colorful clips, sitting beside them, a way-too-thin black Lab lying by her feet. Olive and I approach them, and I go on my knees. “Who is this cutie?” I ask, holding back Olive when she reaches to pet the dog.
“Sora,” the woman answers, reaching down and placing her hand in front of the Lab’s eyes before petting his head. Sora leans into her hand. “We rescued him six months ago, the precious boy.”
When Olive reaches out again, I grab her hand and ask, “Is he okay with strangers?”
The woman looks sad as she says, “Yes, but place your hand where he can see first. He’s deaf, so you have to show him when you’re going to pet him.”
“You hear that?” I tell Olive, whose eyes are wide and filled with a familiar sympathetic gaze as she does exactly that.
While she gives Sora attention, I ask, “Are you putting him up for adoption?”
“He’s been available for months,” she says, her lips frowning even deeper. “He’s a senior dog with a disability; it’ll be difficult to find him a place.”
“Poor baby.” I go on my knees, let Sora see me before joining the petting spree. He turns on his back, revealing his stomach, and it makes my chest ache.
Exposing his belly this way to someone he’s just met means he’s way too friendly, leaving him vulnerable to attack, which is probably how he got the scar running under his chin.
“What will happen if nobody adopts him?” Olive asks, and the employee looks at me with wide eyes. We both know what usually happens, but I’m not sure if I’m the right person to show Olive how cruel the world is to animals without a home—and I’m not entirely sure if Sora is in the same danger as so many dogs tend to be.
“Well,” says the employee, Dainese—I read the sticker tag on the side of her blue shirt—“we have these treats, the bone-shaped ones in that jar right there.” She points to the container filled to the brim with them. “Each time someone buys one of those, we keep the funds for Sora. It helps us keep getting him more treats, and have the ability to keep him longer, take him for fun walks to the park and the beach.”
Both Olive and I shoot up and say, “I’ll buy some,” at the same time.
Dainese chuckles, but her doe-eyed gaze is filled with gratitude as she stands and helps us with the treats. Sora remains lying on the tiny blanket, staring at all of us, and I have to tell myself I have no way to care for this dog, and I cannot reasonably bring him back to Anders’s home.
But he has the cutest round dark eyes, and I see such pure gentleness in them that tears fill my eyes.