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“Not wolves?” Bailey asks.
“Nope. Definitely trolls.”
Bailey does introductions, and I try to remember, though my brain is buzzing. Shannon is the loud one with pale skin and dark hair, and I think Jenny is the name of the one with glasses, rows of tiny braids, and light brown skin. Her disposition reminds me a little of Bailey. She speaks so softly, it’s hard to hear her over the music.
I realize I’ve met the older woman at the shelter—Beth, with her white curls and wide smile. I’m too distracted by the feel of Bailey’s leg pressed against mine under the table to take in much else. I’m wearing jeans so I can’t feel her skin, but just knowing hers is bare is enough.
I have a brief argument with myself about being shallow for noticing Bailey now that she’s wearing something other than scrubs. But my awareness started the other day. When she was in normal work clothes and had her hair in a messy ponytail.
And I’ve always liked Bailey. Even if it’s only lately that I started to realize my visits to the shelter are maybe as much about her as they are the dogs. Her quiet steadiness calms me. I’ve enjoyed the challenge of seeing what questions will actually make her talk.
So, see?
Not shallow.
We’re friends. I feel affection because we’refriends, just like I told Van when I had him in a headlock.
She smiles up at me, and my gaze falls to her lips.
Notterriblyshallow. Maybe more than justfriendlyfeelings. Amildsense of attraction.
“Good to see you,” Beth says, her white curls bouncing around her face as she smiles. “Almost didn’t recognize you without a dog in your lap.”
“How’s Doris?” I ask.
Bailey’s smile widens. “Better. Still doesn’t like the other dogs or most people, but she’s eating.”
“Who’s Doris?” Van asks, looking confused.
I ignore him. “Can I buy everyone a round of drinks?” It’s only as I look around the table that I notice the birthday balloons and a few gift bags, brightly colored tissue paper peeking out of the tops. “Wait—whose birthday is it?”
All conversation stops. And from the way everyone’s eyes fall to Bailey, I don’t need anyone to answer. I spin, angling myself toward her and resting my arm on the back of her chair.
“Bailey—is it your birthday?”
She stares down at her hands, twisting a napkin in her lap. But she’s smiling. “It’s not a big deal.”
My arm is still on the back of her chair, and I let it fall forward until it brushes her shoulders. “Oh, I happen to disagree. Where I come from, birthdays are a very big deal.”
Shannon furrows her brow. “Like, birthdays are a big deal in Canada?”
“Yeah, Eli,” Van says, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “You have Canadian birthday traditions I don’t know about,eh?”
“Yeah. We do.”
We don’t.
But no one else at this table knows that. Honestly, I’ve found that the American understanding of Canada begins and ends with maple leaves, Mounties, and the apparent universal appeal of Justin Trudeau.
Oh, andeh. Just addehto unlock your Canadian achievement badge.
I grin at Bailey, staring pointedly until she lifts her gaze to meet mine. For half a second, looking at her warm brown eyes, I forget where I was going with this.
“In Canada we have a whole set of birthday traditions.”
Bailey tugs at the end of her hair, twirling a strand of it around her finger. I find this little show of nerves endearing.
“Like what?”
