The Dog Park. Laura Caldwell

       1

      “Jess, enough with this, okay?” Sebastian said in a “weary trending toward cranky” tone. He held out a small bag that read Neiman Marcus. My divorced mind ruffled through a few statements and questions—What is it? He never used to shop at Neiman Marcus. Judging by the size of the bag it would have to be an accessory. Jewelry? For me?

      But the tone of my ex-husband’s voice had pretty much eliminated the possibility that it was a gift. Also, Sebastian hadn’t bought me jewelry in a long while, and except for my engagement ring, Sebastian never bought jewelry in the United States. Always it was when he was overseas, on a story. Like the beaded chandelier earrings from a country in Africa I’d never heard of and the vintage Iraqi headdress that I wear as a necklace.

      Baxter—our blond, fluffy dog—was in my arms. I kissed him on the head. “I missed you, Baxy,” I said. “I missed you so much.”

      He licked my chin, and his butt squirmed as he wagged his tail. Baxy’s fifteen pounds of dog against my chest was the most comforting weight in the world to me. When I finally put him down, he tore into my bedroom where he had toys stashed under a chaise lounge, which he hadn’t seen in a week while Sebastian had him.

      As Baxter rounded the corner, I looked in the bag. I laughed.

      “It’s not that funny,” Sebastian said.

      “Oh, c’mon.” I lifted from the bag Baxter’s blue collar and leash that I had sewn gold stars onto—stars that had come from an old Halloween costume of Sebastian’s.

      The party had been Harry Potter–themed, and as much as Sebastian would normally have dismissed it as ridiculous, it had been hosted by a journalist he had always emulated. And so Sebastian had been a wizard, dressed in a purple robe with stars and a pointed hat. It’s not that he hadn’t pulled it off, I just liked to needle him when I could. I also liked the idea of a guys’ guy like Sebastian having to walk around with a dog in bedazzled gear. Or maybe I hoped the goofy collar could lessen the pain of our weekly exchange—Here’s the dog back. It’s your turn to take care of this thing we both love like a kid, the dog we got when we were trying to keep our marriage intact.

      “I mean, why would you even spend your time doing something like that?” Sebastian asked.

      “You know that’s what I do, right?” I said. “I’m a stylist. I style.”

      Sebastian said nothing.

      “I don’t know why I’m surprised,” I said. “It’s not like you ever took my job seriously.”

      “Jesus, Jess, that’s not true. Why do you say that?”

      “I’m a stylist. You’re a journalist. You’re the legit one.”

      “You’re saying that. Not me. I never said that.” Sebastian scoffed and shook his head.

      Here we were again—in the ruts of a much-treaded argument.

      He pointed at the bag. “That stuff is not what you do with your styling business anyway. You dress people.”

      “Do you even know what that means?”

      Why did I do this? What made me want to bug him, to try and draw him into this crap?

      Because it’s all you have left.

      That was the thought that answered me, and it rang like a bell, a few loud chimes. Then the sound died into the distance, drifting away, just like we had done.

      The strong muscles of Sebastian’s jaw tensed, clenched. He ran a hand over his curly brown hair that was cut extra short for the summer. “Of course I know what that means. To an extent.”

      In total, Sebastian and I had known each other for seven years—five of them married, the last of them divorced—and yet we still didn’t have a handle on what the other did for a living. Sebastian deliberately withheld, and so I guess I did it, too, in retribution.

      “Look, Jess—” Sebastian fake smiled “—we’re talking about the collar, right?”

      I looked in the bag. “The collar and the leash.” I picked them up and jangled them together for effect.

      “First of all, look at those.” Another shake of his head. “Baxter is a boy. Hell, he’s three years old. Bax is a man now.”

      At the sound of his name, Baxter tore into the kitchen and dropped a white rubber ball at our feet, his tail thumping. Throw it for me, I could hear him thinking. C’mon, throw it for me.

      Like a true child of divorce, Baxter always seemed to know when to deflect the situation.

      I picked up the ball and threw it down the hall. He scampered after it, sliding a little on the hardwood floors.

      “He’s a man who likes this collar and leash,” I said, lifting the bag a little.

      “How do you know he likes it?”

      “He prances around.”

      “Baxy does not prance,” Sebastian said.

      “You know he does.”

      I