They might dine at La Ferme’s heated outdoor patio, or they could choose a different venue. But wherever they go, it won’t be difficult to find them.
I put away my phone and merge into traffic, heading south, deeper into D.C.
Less than an hour later, I’m on my way home from the animal shelter with Romeo. He’s riding shotgun, trying to wedge his snout through the window crack. His efforts are complicated by the plastic cone of shame ringing his neck.
“Sorry for the indignity. But the shelter has to neuter every dog before he’s adopted.”
From the look he gives me, I’m not sure that he accepts my explanation.
We idle at a stoplight on a tree-lined road, and Romeo gives a hoarse-sounding bark.
“You really showed that squirrel who’s boss. Good boy.”
His stitches should dissolve in a week or two, and in the meantime I’ve got a bottle of pain meds from the shelter’s vet to keep Romeo comfortable. The trunk of my car is filled with his new supplies, and it just hit me that I’m going to be walking Romeo morning, noon, and night—even during storms like this one.
He bends down and tries to sniff my leather purse.
“Don’t even think about it. You’re already on thin ice.”
When we get home, the rain has eased, so before we even go inside, I clip on Romeo’s leash and we slowly stroll around my block. He wants to smell every shrub and tree and mark most of them. When a woman walking a golden retriever puppy passes by, Romeo shrinks against my legs. I stroke his head and tell him it’s okay. We’re almost back home when my phone pings with a text from Kimberly, one of my clients: All good see you soon. We’d tentatively scheduled an outdoor session at 3:00 P.M. but agreed to check in before meeting because of the weather.
Kimberly is a twenty-nine-year-old who initially sought me out because of a bad breakup. I think about him all the time, she confessed. I can’t stop checking out his Instagram. I even drove by his house the other night. Her core issue wasn’t the presenting problem. It rarely is. Kimberly had been sexually assaulted as a teenager and never received the help she deserved. She can’t afford my usual fee, but I don’t do this work solely for the money. Kimberly pays a fraction of what I charge clients such as the Bishops.
My strategy with Kimberly has been to begin gently, earning her trust and connecting her with a solid foundation of support networks. Now for our eighth session, which I’ve labeled The Test, we’re amping things up by meeting on the trail in the park where the man grabbed her.
Romeo and I climb the front steps to my porch and I deactivate my home alarm. I hook his leash over a post and return to my car, making two trips to carry in his supplies.
After filling up his water bowl and giving him a chewy bone to work on, I set up his crate, placing a comfy pillow and a few toys inside.
“I’ll be back in a bit.” I give him a pain pill inside a piece of turkey.
He swallows it, but looks unconvinced.
“You’re the master of the guilt trip,” I grumble as I latch the door to his crate. But it’s probably strange for him to be in such a quiet place after the constant noise of the shelter. I turn on some acoustic rock and grab my purse, then head back out the door.
* * *
All in all, it was a successful day, I reflect as Romeo and I amble down Connecticut Avenue in the chilly evening air, his leash in my right hand and my bag of spring rolls and panang dangling from my left.
Kimberly’s session had gone well. At first she had been reluctant to even step onto the park’s pathway, but in the end she did so of her own volition. And even though I let Romeo wander around the house while I typed up my notes and checked in with Cameron, my shoes remained unchewed.
My latest update from Cameron was also pleasing: Skylar had been released from the hospital and he’d resisted her pleas to drive her home. Apparently she’d taken an Uber.
As for my newest clients, the Bishops, Marissa had emailed to tell me she’d secured a babysitter for tomorrow night, and Matthew was making reservations for their date. She didn’t reveal where they’re going, but I’ll park outside their home—using my late husband’s car in case they recognize mine—and follow them to the restaurant. I’m curious about how they act when they think no one is watching.
Plus, I received another call today from a potential new client—my fourth since Monday. I’m at the point now where I need to turn away more business than I accept.
The contours of my life have changed so dramatically in the past year, and the freshness and unpredictability of my days typically imbue me with energy. But tonight all I want to do is flop on my couch with Thai food and a Netflix binge.