At the app’s prompting he uploaded a photo of Bernard for his profile picture. Then on to the questions. He hated answering questions. When he got to the final box, which asked him to explain what he was looking for, he grumbled to himself as he thumbed too-small keys, wishing he could draw instead of type. He’d always been better with images than with words anyway. Somehow, people always took his words the wrong way.
That’s why it had felt so fortuitous when he’d met Davis, who seemed to pluck the words he intended from his drawings and put them on the page. A perfect partnership. Or so he’d thought.
He banished all thoughts of Davis from his mind and mashed the Submit Profile button, then shoved his phone back into his pocket.
PetShare matched pet owners with animal enthusiasts who didn’t have pets of their own. Some of the users were people like Jack who needed help with animal care. Others were just willing to let animal lovers spend time with their pets. But with four dogs (and a cat) who needed twice-daily walks, Jack wasn’t optimistic about his chances of being matched with someone, no matter how enthusiastic they were. He imagined he might need three or four interested parties to meet his animals’ needs.
Charlie had volunteered to walk them until he found someone, and he didn’t want to burden his brother any longer than he had to. Charlie had the hardware store to run, and he spent long hours there and on construction sites.
Jack flicked on the television. He’d never watched much TV before the Davis debacle. The worlds he dreamt up in his head and the world outside his door had always been preferable to any he’d found on the screen. But over the past eight months he’d learned the numbing power of flickering lights and voices that required no response.
Wanting something mindless and distracting, Jack selected Secaucus Psychic. Maybe seeing people who’d lost family members to actual death would put a broken leg in perspective.
Hell, who was he kidding. He didn’t want perspective. He wanted to sink into the couch and into his bad mood and sulk for just a little longer.
He’d banned Bernard from the couch because, though fully grown, the St. Bernard behaved like a puppy, flopping on top of Jack despite weighing nearly as much as him, and with a leg held together with pins and casting, and ribs and head aching, Jack didn’t think he could take a careless flop. So instead, Bernard had piled himself on the floor in front of the couch, as close to Jack as he could get, and lolled his massive head back every few minutes to check if he was allowed on the couch yet.
Pirate curled delicately in the crook of his elbow, though, and he stroked her back, making her rumble.
An unfamiliar ding from his pocket startled both Jack and Pirate. It was the notification sound for PetShare. Jack thumbed the app open and saw that he’d matched. Someone whose username was SimpleSimon and lived 6.78 miles away from him had checked the I’d love to! option next to Jack’s description of what he was looking for.
“I’ll be damned,” Jack said to the animals. “Either this dude is a saint or he’s got no life at all.”
Pirate yawned and stretched out a paw to lazily dig her claws into his shoulder.
“Fine, jeez, I know. I don’t have one either,” Jack grumbled, and resentfully clicked Accept.
* * *
It was a horrible night. One of Jack’s worst.
Because of his concussion, he couldn’t take a strong enough painkiller to touch the ache in his ribs and the screaming in his leg. He tossed and turned, and finally gave up on sleep, searching the darkness for the familiar reflective eyes watching him. After a moment, he lurched upright. The sudden movement shot pain through his head and chest and leg and left him gasping and nauseated, clutching the edge of the mattress until the worst of it passed.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Finally, having learned his lesson, Jack gingerly pushed himself off the bed and shoved the crutches under his arms. The pull of the muscles across his chest as he used his arms to propel him forward left his ribs in agony. By the time he got to the bathroom, usually just ten quick steps away, he was sweating and swearing, teeth clenched hard.
Then, the drama of lowering his pants.
“Can’t even take a damn piss without fucking something up,” Jack muttered. At least, that’s what he’d intended to mutter before the pain and exhaustion stole the luxury of indulging in self-deprecating commentary.
Humbled and infuriated in equal measure, Jack gave up on sleep entirely. Coffee. That’s what he needed. Coffee was the opposite of sleep. Coffee was a choice he could make when apparently he couldn’t control a single other goddamn thing in his pathetic, broken life.