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It actuallyhurtsto see such a normally bright and sunny man look so sad.
Immediately, I want to fix it. Especially after sticking my foot so far into my mouth.
“Sorry—bad joke,” I say quietly, waving a hand and hoping he doesn't see the flush creeping up my neck. “It's just an expression. Studies have shown that being around dogs can cause a release of oxytocin, serotonin, dopamine, and endorphins. So, it’s like a kind of therapy. Not that youneedtherapy. Or that there’s anything wrong with therapy. I saw a therapist for a while. Just for, you know,reasons.”
I clamp my mouth shut before any other words can possibly escape. My tongue tangle is in full effect, only instead ofkeepingme from talking, it’s indiscriminately spraying out words with the force and imprecision of a firehose.
The only thing that saves me from disappearing into a pit in the floor is Eli’s smile. A real one. Slow and warm like melted cheese—ew, no! Not cheese. Like melted caramel—better.
If my ridiculous babbling can lighten his mood and make this man smile, I’ll gladly contribute to the cause.
“Good to know,” he says, still smiling.
Good to knowwhat?That I went to therapy? That being around dogs can help release a cocktail of happy brain chemicals? That I have a real problem with oversharing?
I swallow thickly, afraid to open my mouth again lest I confess something else. Like the fact that I still have an overdue book I checked out of Asheville’s public library seven years ago, or how I once threw a piece of ice across the cafeteria at a boy I liked and it left a welt on the back of his head.
In lieu of speaking, I extend my arm to the swinging door that leads to a hall of what we call our meet-and-greet rooms.
Eli nods, still looking amused I’msureat my expense, and runs a hand through his floppy blond hair. If not a face model, Eli could totally be a hair model. Or whatever that official job title is. A shampoo spokesperson? Follicle featurer? A harbinger of hair?
Eli beats me to the door and holds it open for me. I refuse to swoon over his gentlemanly vibes, but as I brush past his broad chest, I do take a deep inhale of his scent.
I don't know what exactly the different notes are, but the sum total ends up being masculine and heady without being overwhelming. Like a spicy-hot, manly cinnamon stick. Possibly the best smell in the world. Followed very distantly by the fresh bread smell when you walk into Subway. I have to shake off thoughts of what it would be like to stand next to Eliinsidea Subway.
Eli plus freshly baked bread? Perfection.
I lead him to the first meet-and-greet room where people can see how they vibe with different potential pets. Our shelter has three of these rooms, all identical with an uncomfortable bench nailed to the wall, a few scattered toys, and a drain in the floor. Excited dogs often equal excited bladders. And it's a whole lot easier to clean up this excitement when you can rinse it right down a drain.
Typically, we would walk potential adopters through the second door that leads to the kennels and let them pick a few dogs to meet one at a time. But Eli isn’t typical. For one, he’s made it clear he can’t adopt a dog. His job—whatever it is—requires he keep hours that aren’t conducive to pet ownership. So he’s said. Which is a shame, really. I’ve seen the longing in his eyes when he’s playing tug-of-war with a lab mix, the widening of his smile when a tiny mutt climbs in his lap, the way he brightens when I walk into the room with any dog at all. The man should have a dog if for no other reason than it lights him up inside.
I’ve never asked what he does that won’t allow him to care for a pet. I don’t ask him any questions. That would mean crossing over some invisible line I’ve set for myself. And fighting against the shyness holding my words hostage.
Technically, I shouldn’t let Eli keep coming in to hang out with the dogs.
Technically, I don’t care.
The second reason Eli isn’t like other people who come in is that he lets me pick the dogs for him. After his first time here, he refused to go in the kennels. He said it made him too sad to see all of them lined up and waiting for homes. I remember the way his eyes widened, how his gaze traveled down the long row of enclosures, at the noses pressed between bars. His swallow had been visible, throat bobbing in a way that made me sad at the same time as it made me want to remove a layer of clothing for fear of spontaneous combustion.
Eli forgoes the bench to sit on the floor cross-legged, like he's a Kindergarten student waiting for reading time. Not a grown man whose frame is so large he makes this room look Lilliputian.
He makes me feel miniature as well, which is normally something that would bother me. After being teased mercilessly about my height—or lack thereof—when I was younger, I normally don’t like any reminder that I’m what my best friend, Shannon, calls a pocket person. Eli’s largeness, instead of making me feel smaller, somehow makes me feel safe.
Not that Eli has ever acted in some kind of overtly protective way toward me. Outside of my dreams, anyway.
Creepy as it might make me sound, Elihasstarred in my dreams a few times.
Most notably a recent one in which he was some kind of centaur-unicorn with his handsome face and broad chest attached to the body of a purple horse. Complete with a pink mane, tail, and glittery horn.
That one was trippy and definitely in the PG-13 category. Me, riding on his back, gripping his mane between my fingers. The searing kiss he gave me after I slid down his flank.
Freud would have a field day with all of this.
But it's mysubconscious!I can’t control what my brain does when I'm sleeping! If mine wants to have sexy centaur-unicorn dreams featuring Eli, I can’t stop it and I’m certainly not going to judge.
My subconscious has good taste.
“Are you okay?”
