Amazed
Holden
is close causes me to stiffen. “Yes and no,” I repeat, chuckling to mask my discomfort. “It’s complicated. We are close, but that doesn’t come without bumps in the road, I guess.”
Her face twists, giving me the impression she’s trying to stop herself from saying what she really wants to say. I feel like I owe her after my earlier question about her parents, but this is our first date. Diving into uncomfortable family secrets doesn’t set a great tone to encourage a repeat. And even with the awkwardness, we’ve managed to wade through it and return to comfortable territory.
“Every family has their troubles, I guess. It’s nice that you guys are close despite it all.” Her voice loses volume as she finishes speaking and I worry that inadvertently, we are veering off course again.
We explore the pet store, aisle by aisle, and each time we return to the front, the young man behind the counter smiles and waves at Dina, then sends me a slight scowl.
I glimpse a stuffed baseball, which brings to mind a sharable memory. “I played tee-ball.”
She glances up at me, giggling. “For some reason, I have a hard time picturing that.”
“Oh, I hated it. Half of the kids on my team would be standing in the infield, building dirt piles with their feet, not paying attention to anything. Each kid at bat could have rounded home plate three times before the infielders looked up. It was torture.”
“It couldn’t have been that bad. There must have been some kids on the team who enjoyed the competition,” she continues.
“They gave out a ‘best sandcastle builder’ award at the end of the year. There was no mention of best infielder. What does that tell you?”
Dina laughs again, which prompts a breath of relief to escape my nose. Hopefully, we get better at navigating these conversational landmines.
I scan the aisle of dog treats and toys, wondering what it would take for me to win Nacho over. Anything along the lines of a fetch toy is out. I have a feeling I’d be the one doing the fetching. A few items catch my eye, so I pick them up, one at a time, deciding on both.
Once again, Dina looks uncomfortable.
“What’s wrong?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s… uh, it’s just that my budget dictates I not spend more money than necessary right now.”
I look down at the items in my arms. “These are my peace offerings. My treat.”
She looks confused, with her dark brows knit together, mirroring my expression. What kind of people is she spending time with that she’d assume I would pick up something and insist she pay for them? Who does that?
“You don’t have to do that. He’s pretty low maintenance,” she insists.
That makes me laugh. “You carry him around in a purse.”
She stares at me with her dark eyes, not saying a word.
“And a raincoat. Low maintenance doesn’t apply.”
“That’s presumptuous of you.” She turns herself and tucks Nacho behind her as if she’s shielding him from my verbal assault. “He’s easy-going when you get to know him.”
Note to self: Don’t say anything remotely negative about Nacho Dog.
“Well, he can still be easygoing with a plush squirrel tree trunk toy and an interactive treat dispensing dog chew,” I read the tags aloud, confident in my choice. “Those sound like things a chill dog like Nacho would enjoy.”
“You don’t need to do that. Really.” Dina worries her lower lip, drawing my attention to her full, pink pout.
I step toward her and hear a less intimidating growl from her overprotective Chihuahua. “I want to. He’s left me no choice. At this point, I’ll have to resort to bribery to make him like me.”
We walk toward the checkout, where Dina is greeted by the short blond guy named Richard, according to his nametag. She returns the greeting, but doesn’t engage in any further conversation.
I place the two items on the counter, ready to pay, when Dina snickers quietly.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, sliding my debit card out of my wallet.
“Look at these dog cookies. There’s one that says ‘prince’.”
I scan the display and see a more appropriate one. “I think ‘bad attitude’ suits him better.” Another one catches my attention, so I pick it up. “Or ‘bad to the bone’. I’m going to get him this… If that’s okay with you.”
“You don’t have to buy him anything, Dickens.”
“Once again, I want to.” I slide the cookie across the counter, laughing at the absurdity of a six-dollar dog cookie. But as the saying goes, the way to a man’s heart is his stomach. I’m pretty sure the way to Dina’s heart is through Nacho’s. It’s a two-step vetting process.
Richard bags my peace offerings, tears a receipt, then we’re on our way. To where? I have no idea. If historical gender roles have taught me anything, now I should offer the lady a beverage or something to eat.
As we exit the pet store, I ask, “So, should we go get a drink somewhere? Or are you hungry?”
No snarky reply. No quick comeback. Dina appears to be glitching.
“We can go somewhere with a patio. A few are still open.”
Nothing.
“Dina? Are you okay?”
“Hmm? Oh, sorry. I was just thinking. What did you say?”
Weird. She spaced out, and I can’t help but wonder if she’s bothered by my purchases.
“I just asked if you wanted to stop somewhere for a bite to eat.” Before she’s able to chime in with her budgetary restrictions, I add, “My treat.”
“That’s too much, Holden. You already spent money on Nacho. I can’t ask you to do that.”
I stutter step, and gently guide Dina to the front of a barbershop, so we’re out of the way of other pedestrians. “If I didn’t want to, or couldn’t, I wouldn’t have bought Nacho anything, and I wouldn’t have asked you if you wanted to eat. Don’t worry so much.” My hand takes on a life of its own, rising up to stoke her jaw with my thumb. “If I was broke, I would have taken you to the hot dog cart or something.”
She huffs a laugh, and once again we’ve navigated through an awkward moment. This has to be some kind of record.
“Okay. But I have a request.”
“Name it.” Please don’t say Hibiscus. Please don’t say Hibiscus. Smuggling an angry dog into a five-star restaurant doesn’t sound like a fun afternoon.
“We grab something from the hot dog cart, then walk over to Garrison Common.”
“That sounds perfect.”
The grin that appears on Dina’s lips is the most radiant I’ve seen to date. If a street vendor and a trip through a national historic site make her that happy, I can’t wait to put in a real effort.
We reach Weiner Winner, which I will forever think is a terrible business name, and I gesture for Dina to order. She orders four hot dogs, which surprises me, and I wonder if perhaps Nacho has a ravenous appetite. I request one more for myself and two cans of soda.
Before I can pay, Dina rifles through her bag and pulls out some cash. “At least let me pay for the extra ones.”
I close my hand around hers, tucking the cash into her fist. “No, it’s fine. I got you.”
The smile she had moments ago is quickly replaced by glassy eyes, which she refuses to look at me with. She just nods, and I notice a hard swallow.
It’s not that I think our date is going poorly, but it’s thrown several curve balls my way. And considering I never made it past peewee tee-ball, I’m floundering, unsure how to handle them.
When the vendor hands us our street meat, Dina takes three, leaving me with two. I expect her to dive in or throw a whole one in her purse for Nacho, but she just cradles them, careful not to drop any.
Not wanting to create any more awkward moments, I resist the temptation to ask her if she’s going to eat them. We make it across the street and halfway through the park when she darts to the left.
“Be right back.”
I stand in place for more than a minute, unsure where she even disappeared to. She emerges from behind the trees lining the pathway seconds later with empty hands.
Immediately my mind pictures her hiding behind a hedge, scarfing down three hearty portions of questionable pork, like a national hot dog eating champion.
She grabs one hot dog from my hands. “Thanks.”
Confusion can cause speech paralysis. I’m proof of that fact; words fail me. I’m suffering from some kind of hot-dog-induced aphasia. So many questions.
Dina doesn’t seem fazed by my silence. She nibbles on her hot dog like a civilized person. I don’t get the impression that she’d stuff three in her face behind a tree, but I’ve been wrong before.
I can’t resist asking. “Where did the other hot dogs go?”
She takes a sip of her orange soda before answering. “Um. There are usually a few homeless people in there. I see them a lot when I walk Nacho around here, so I try to bring them what I can.”
My hand drops, because suddenly I feel guilty for eating my food. She implied she didn’t have a lot of money to burn at the pet store, but would have spent what she had to feed other people in need?
This girl keeps throwing more questions at me than answers, and the more I get to know, the more there is to find out.
The mystery of Dina Blake is becoming more complex with each encounter.