37. Chocolate and Charcoal

There’s a white van parked in front of the townhouse.

Thank God — they’re here.

I can’t get Miranda’s voice on that phone call out of my head. Choked, like she was forcing it not to wobble. 

I’ve never heard her like that before. 

“Andrea,” was the first thing she said. “Andrea, it’s Patricia.” 

As soon as she’d said the words, I had my phone on speaker and was googling the nearest vet willing to do an emergency house call. 

“The vet is on their way,” I told her as I finalized the details. “They’ll be there soon, Miranda. Just hold on, they’re coming as fast as they can.” 

“They?” Miranda snapped. 

I fumbled, my phone almost taking a nose dive to the kitchen tile. Doug, in his blue bathrobe, clearly dragged from sleep by the commotion, lurched forward to try and catch it.

Thankfully, I managed to juggle it enough to save it from a crash, but Doug and I nearly slid into each other in the chaos. 

“Yes, Miranda,” I said breathily, recovering from the near disaster. I put my phone on the counter to avoid any more accidents. “The vet. They’ll be there soon.” 

“I heard you the first time.” Her voice could’ve sliced ice. “Get here, Andrea.” 

My breath hitched. 

“Miranda, I’m not sure what I could possibly–”

“Be here,” was all she said before hanging up. 

And so here I am, taking the few steps to the door two at a time. 

I let myself in, following the tense voices to the kitchen. My heart sinks as I walk onto the devastating scene. 

Two techs and a vet are crouched around Patricia, a fluid bag hanging from a collapsible stand, the sharp chemical smell of activated charcoal lingering in the air.

A trail of brownie crumbs leads to a metal baking tin lying forgotten on the tile. 

A few feet away, Miranda stands, regal as ever in her silk lavender pajama set, snapping demands at the vet team. 

It’s disconcerting to see people not bend to her beck and call for once. 

“Ma’am,” one of the vet techs says from the floor. “We’re doing everything we can. The best thing you can do is stay calm.” 

Miranda opens her mouth, and I know she’s about to let the poor man have it. 

“Miranda,” I interrupt, hurrying to her side. She watches me, not turning to me, but following me with her eyes. 

“Hey,” I say, resting my hand on the small of her back. “How about we go to the den? We’ll give them space to help Patricia, and be close enough to know if anything happens.” 

Miranda doesn’t nod, doesn’t acknowledge my suggestion, but she lets me lead her away. 

In the den, I steer her toward the loveseat instead of her usual chair. I figure she needs to be comfortable more than she needs to be focused. 

Once she’s seated, I busy myself making the space suitable for several hours of waiting. I turn on a lamp on an end table, avoiding the big overhead light, then I sneak back into the kitchen. 

The vet techs are still hard at work with Patricia. She’s in no state now to go stealing brownies, but I pick the tin up anyway. I have to hunt around in a few drawers to find the cling wrap, but once I do, I use it to cover the brownies and set them in the fridge. 

Unless Patricia’s developed opposable thumbs since the last time I saw her, I doubt she’ll be able to get to them there. 

Finally, I grab a glass and fill it with ice and water from the fancy water filter. 

I learned early on in Miranda’s employment that an ice cube or two can help soothe anxiety. 

“Here you go,” I say, setting the glass on the end table beside her. I wrack my brain for something else to do, but there’s nothing. Just… wait.

I take a step away to settle into my own chair, determined to wait as long as it takes for Patricia to be declared a healthy puppy again, but a grip on my wrist stops me in my tracks. 

I swear my soul leaves my body and watches the scene unfold outside of myself. 

I turn, and see long, delicate fingers wrapped around my wrist. I follow those fingers up to an arm, draped in lavender silk. 

A sloped shoulder. 

An elegant neck. 

Soft, barely parted lips. 

A sharp, commanding nose, nostrils flared. 

Wide, clear blue eyes staring up into mine, straight into my soul. 

For a moment that feels like a lifetime, we stay there, unmoving. Statues. We’re like one of those museum pieces — not the famous ones, but the quiet ones tucked in the back, where you turn a corner and just… stop. Because something about it makes you feel everything, all at once. 

A tug on my wrist snaps me back into my body. I crash into myself and settle into the space next to Miranda on the loveseat. 

Her hand doesn’t leave my wrist. 

We’re close. So close. I’m pretty sure this is the closest we’ve ever been, and a part of me is freaking out, dropped in unfamiliar territory without a single shred of a map, but another part of me … 

It feels so right. Not natural, not even comfortable, but … right. 

Inevitable. 

I don’t know how long we sit there, nestled in the loveseat. All I know is that at some point — without even realizing it — her fingers shift. From gripping my wrist… to threading between mine.

We sit there, silent. My heartbeat’s the only thing I can hear. 

After an age of silence, footsteps approach. 

Miranda’s on her feet before I can fully turn to the see the vet in the doorway. 

She still hasn’t dropped my hand. In fact, she’s squeezing it so hard, I think I hear a finger or two pop as I slowly stand. 

“She’s going to be fine.” The vet doesn’t leave us in suspense. “But I’d like to take her to the clinic for overnight observation.”

“Of course,” Miranda breathes. “Whatever you need to do.” 

“Ok then,” the vet’s smile is tired, the circles under her eyes all too obvious. “We’ll get her loaded and comfortable in the van, and call you as soon as she’s settled at the clinic. We’ll update you in the morning about when you can pick her up.”

And twenty minutes later, the house is more quiet and still than I’ve ever felt it. It’s incredible how much life just the sound of paws treading across the floor can bring. 

In the foyer, Miranda and I stand, staring at each other. 

Well. 

Patricia is in good hands. She’s going to be okay. I guess … I’m not needed anymore. 

“I’ll just …” I take a reluctant step toward the door. 

“It would have been disastrous,” Miranda comments as if I haven’t spoken. “If the girls came home on Monday to find their dog … gone. All because of a batch of brownies.” 

She folds her arms around herself, glancing away, seeming to find something interesting on the wall. 

“A tin of brownies. They shouldn’t have even been there, but …” she trails off. After everything over the last week, I think that is the most concerning. Miranda doesn’t trail off. 

“Well,” I say after the pause stretches too long. “I’m just glad I could help. I’ll let you–”

“Come along,” Miranda interrupts, turning and making her way up the stairs. I’m left staring after her. 

Um. Huh? 

Halfway up the staircase, one hand on the banister, she turns over her shoulder. 

“Well?”

That gets my feet moving. 

She leads us to the living room, settling onto the couch with just a touch less grace than usual. I hover in the entrance way until Miranda airily gestures for me to take a seat. I lower myself down next to her, trying not to be so obviously awkward. 

I’m pretty sure I fail. 

I mean, we’ve watched tv in here, but always with the girls. It’s never been just us before. 

“What should we watch?” Miranda is already scrolling through channels. 

Well. If tonight is going to be an episode of The Twilight Zone, I might as well roll with it. 

“There are always reruns of Survivor,” I suggest. 

“Hmm,” is all Miranda says. But she finds an episode, and Jeff Probst’s voice fills the room. 

I do my best to relax, as if this isn’t the weirdest, best night of my life. 

It isn’t hard.