Perfectly Undone. Jamie Raintree
“What gives gardens life is the way each individual detail adds up to something more meaningful. What will your garden mean to you? What do you want to feel when you’re there?”
I ponder the question—somewhat personal coming from a stranger who was hired to dig a glorified trench in my backyard.
If I could walk into another world and feel anything, what would it be?
My mind wanders to Cooper and the look on his face when I left him alone with the champagne. It flashes to the way my mom hardly speaks to me anymore, the way I’ve given up on ever having a relationship with her again. I picture Abby with the oxygen mask over her face. I always picture Abby.
“Forgiveness,” I say, not meeting his gaze as I utter the word. “I want to feel forgiveness.”
A single raindrop hits the page, smearing a charcoal flower, and I try to brush it away.
“I’m... I... Sorry.” I thrust the sketch pad at him but he doesn’t take it. He stares at me for a moment, his hands in his back pockets. The way he looks at me, I’d swear he can read my mind.
He finally lifts the pad from my hand and opens the truck door to place it back inside. Before he faces me again, I walk toward the house.
“Dylan.” He almost whispers my name, but I hear the very breath it rides on. I was wrong. My name on his lips is disconcerting either way. I look over my shoulder at him. “Glad you like it,” he says.
* * *
On Wednesday night, I stop by the grocery store on the way home to buy the ingredients for Cooper’s favorite dish—tacos—as a thank-you for the garden, and as an apology when words aren’t enough. On nights like this, part of me is thankful I don’t have clinical trials and paperwork to sort through and catalog. It makes me look forward to the days when this will be our life, every night, however far into the future that might be.
I drop the groceries in the kitchen, then search the house for Cooper. As I approach our bedroom door, I hear Cooper murmuring as if to a child. At first, I irrationally think he’s brought a patient home from the office—those are the only children either of us knows—until I inch my way into the room where he’s hunched over on the floor next to the bed, cooing and humming words I can’t make out.
“What’s going on?” I ask from the doorway.
He looks over his shoulder at me, a grin from ear to ear. This makes me more nervous that it should. He stands and turns to face me with a small German shepherd puppy lounging across his palms, belly up, tongue flapping lazily out of its open mouth.
“What’s that?” I ask, the shock giving me no time to filter my thoughts.
“My receptionist had puppies.”
“Your receptionist gave birth to puppies?”
Cooper laughs nervously, his smile shrinking down a size. “You know what I mean.”
I force myself not to jump to any conclusions, calming my racing heart with one long, controlled breath. Cooper knows we don’t have the time or energy to take care of a puppy. He wouldn’t spring something like this on me. Except that he just sprang a landscaper on me...
No matter how bad an idea, I can’t resist—I step forward and reach out to rub a finger between the puppy’s ears. It nips playfully at my knuckle with its sharp little teeth. Cooper, ever naive, seems encouraged by this.
“Do you want to hold him?”
As much as I would rather crawl into bed—work clothes on and all—and pull the covers over my head, I say, “Sure.”
I move to the bed and sit down on it. Cooper sets the German shepherd in my lap. The puppy yelps and begins to lick every inch of available skin on my arms. At first, I try to redirect him but soon realize it’s no use. I allow him his fun until he wears himself out and rolls over onto his back again, apparently approving of me. Cooper watches the whole scenario play out without comment. I just wanted to make Cooper dinner, but it’s never enough—nothing I’m able to give ever is. I place the puppy on the ground, walk past Cooper to the bathroom and shut the door.
I collapse onto the toilet and push my fingers against my temples.
A moment later, I hear a thump as Cooper leans into the door frame.
“Dylan,” he says, his apologetic tone muffled. “Will you come out here and talk to me about this?”
After a few deep breaths, I stand up and place my hands flat on the counter. My bloodshot eyes, dark circles and pale skin make my reflection look washed out and scary. To escape it, I turn around and open the door. Cooper is standing there alone. I look past him and see the puppy playing with one of his old socks on the carpet.
“Did I do something wrong?” he asks. When I don’t answer, he says, “I thought we talked about moving our relationship forward. And then this little guy fell into my lap. It seemed like a sign.” His enthusiasm is gone. Once again, it’s my fault.
“I thought we talked about going on vacation. How are we going to go on vacation with a puppy?”
He shrugs. “We don’t have to keep him,” he says, but I can see in his eyes that he’s already fallen in love with it. Why wouldn’t he? He fell in love with me that first night.
“This is a living thing, Cooper, not an undercooked steak you can send back to the waiter.”
A silence spreads between us like an ink stain. It’s broken when his phone rings on the nightstand. I look away, and he crosses the room to answer it. He says a familiar, “Hey,” and then takes it out of the room, leaving me with the dog.
I heave a sigh, reluctantly cross the room and pick it—I check. Him.—up.
“I don’t know much about dogs,” I murmur to him as he licks my fingers, “but I’m guessing you’ll want to go outside now.”
I carry him to the back door, turn on the porch light and set him loose on the grass. I leave the door open so I can listen for him, then unpack the groceries I no longer feel like cooking. I poke at the potting soil where my daisies have yet to sprout. What the hell do I know about taking care of something?
“Babe,” Cooper says, walking into the dining room. He’s pulling on a T-shirt and has his phone in his hand like he’s on his way out.
“What’s wrong?” I ask.
He shakes his head and throws his hands in the air, as confused as I am.
“Stephen’s on his way over. He and Megan are separating.”
I freeze. “What? You’re joking, right?” I ask.
The purse of Cooper’s lips tells me he’s not. I blink slowly, waiting for time to rewind or for this to be a hoax. Cooper just went hiking with Stephen last weekend and everything was fine. I saw Megan at their parents’ house three weeks ago and she was...well, actually, she was a mess, now that I think about it. And I haven’t seen them under the same roof for months. Funny how, after spending so many years around doctors, that didn’t strike me as out of the ordinary.
“But...no.” That’s all I can think to say, because the more I think about it, the faster the pieces come together. Still, I shake my head, refusing to believe it. Stephen without Megan isn’t possible.
Cooper says, “Megan told Mom this afternoon, and she’s been at my parents’ house crying all day. I just got off the phone with Stephen. Apparently he’s been staying at a hotel all week. He finished his shift at the hospital fifteen minutes ago, and I told him to come over. I hope that’s okay.”
My fingertips go numb with shock.
“A week ago?” I breathe. “Of course it’s okay. Are you okay?” Am I okay? The weight on my chest grows heavier in response. I can hardly see Cooper’s expression in the darkness, but