The Match (It Happened in Charleston 1)

Do I have a fairytale princess obsession? I blame it on those Wednesday cotillion lessons I had to attend in high school.

Charlie pulls me out of my wandering thoughts and keeps me on track by dropping his blue vest at my feet. He’s better at finding things than I am. After buckling it around him, I give him a quick kiss on his head.

Since the coffee shop where I’m supposed to meet my new client is right down the street, I plan on walking instead of calling a ride. Honestly, not being able to drive has been one of the hardest parts of living with a disability. There are so many nights where I wish I could hop in my car and run down to the drugstore to pick up a pint of ice cream. Or when I run out of tampons, it would be so nice to make a run myself, instead of having to call and wait for an Uber or order off of a one-hour grocery delivery service. Without fail, my delivery person ends up being a young guy. And every single time, he blushes when he makes the drop.

“Evening, ma’am. Here are your military-grade tampons and overnight pads. I hope you don’t die of anemia tonight.”

At 9:20, Charlie and I are on the sidewalk, jogging toward the coffee shop. Literally, jogging. My braid is bouncing around my face, and I realize that I probably should have worn bike shorts under my dress. Someone catcalls at me from somewhere across the street, and my suspicions are confirmed.

Somehow, I remembered to grab my binder full of information to share about our matching process as well as our training methods and fees before I darted from the apartment. I wish I could say that our dogs come free of charge to qualifying recipients, but we just aren’t there yet. Right now, our dogs come with a hefty price tag, and there are many people who could really benefit from having a service dog but can’t afford them due to the massive health bills that also come along with having a disability.

But, hopefully, after the big fundraiser Jo and I are putting on next month, that will all change.

For the past few months, we’ve been in contact with lots of major businesses and have coordinated a fancy silent auction of their goods and services that will raise money to help us be able to give away our dogs 100% free of charge to those who qualify. The recipients will have to prove that they are financially capable of providing food and necessary medications and vet visits for their dog, but that’s it. If all goes as hoped, we will make this a yearly event.

I clutch my binder tightly under my arm as I race toward Hudson Roasters. When a bead of sweat runs down my face, I wonder if it would have been better to just reschedule.

I’m meeting a man named Jacob Broaden to discuss having his ten-year-old daughter matched with one of our dogs. Maybe I would have canceled if it wouldn’t have been for her particular disability. Epilepsy. It’s not as if we’ve never matched anyone who shares my same disability before, but for some reason, knowing how young she is makes me feel a kinship to this girl. I feel like I owe it to her to show up today.

The dad sounded nice enough over email—if not a little…eccentric. Although, I think he might have been in a hurry when he sent off the email, because he misspelled a few words. His choice of five exclamation marks at the end of every sentence was intriguing as well. Actually, now that I think of it, I’m just hoping he’s not a psycho. I really don’t want to get stuffed in someone’s trunk today. That would really solidify my parents’ point that the lower class can’t be trusted. But he said he has a daughter. How creepy can someone with a daughter really be? Unless the daughter was just a cover…

Maybe I should have worn a longer dress. Suddenly, I’m very aware of how much of my legs are showing.

As we round the corner to the coffee shop, Charlie and I slow our pace. It’s as hot as Hades today, and I’m sweating like an overweight, fifty-year-old man that’s worked in a cubicle for the last twenty years of his life and has a drawer full of candy bars that he eats when he thinks no one is looking. Yeah, I’m secret-candy-eating-fat-guy sweating, and my vanilla body spray is emitting from my skin in toxic quantities.

Mama would be so proud. I’m really putting my best foot forward today.

Before I reach the door of the coffee shop, I come to a stop, closing my eyes and trying to catch my breath. I mentally remind myself of all the major points I need to cover today and hope I don’t forget anything. It doesn’t matter that I’ve been doing this for three years now; I never fail to grow excessively nervous before these first meetings. I think it’s because I know firsthand how much having a service dog can change someone’s life, and I don’t want to do anything to de

ter them from taking that step.

I look down at Charlie, and he winks at me. I’m telling you, my dog is special.

I take one last glance down at my florally patterned summer dress and do a quick check that all my lady parts are where they should be and have not escaped from the scooped neckline during my jog. But ha ha, who am I kidding? None of my lady parts are big enough to move, let alone escape their confines. There are perks of being tall and lean—being a member of the itty-bitty-you-know-what committee is not one of them.

I open the door, and Charlie walks through with a loose leash like a perfect little gentleman. During the first year after I adopted Charlie, I felt like my eyes were constantly glued to him and his to me. I used my face and hands, asking him to stay, wait, go ahead, or lie down at my feet. Now, it feels as if Charlie knows what I’m thinking before I think it. He and I are so tuned to one another that I honestly forget he’s there. He’s a part of me. My second skin. A very hairy second skin.

It’s an odd thing when there’s no one in the world you trust more than your dog. But that first time I had a seizure alone in my apartment, and Charlie did exactly what we had trained him to do—push the medical alert button on the wall that calls Joanna and then my parents, and then turn me on my side and lick my face to help me regain consciousness sooner—it sealed my trust.

And today, I hope I can help a little girl and her daddy find that same trust.

After stepping inside the coffee shop and letting the cool air rush over the beads of sweat on my forehead, I scan the room, looking for a man and young girl. Mr. Broaden gave me a brief description of himself in his email, so I scan the room, looking for a tall man with “hunny”-colored hair. Though, I really hope that his fingers hit the keys wrong and he actually knows how to spell the word honey.

I’m scanning, I’m scanning, I’m scanning, and….bingo!

There’s a tall man with dirty-blond hair, a to-go cup in each hand, walking toward a young girl sitting at a table. This has to be them. Charlie and I approach the two, and the girl notices us first. Her eyes light up when she sees Charlie, and I recognize the look. It’s the same one everyone gives my dog. It’s a look that says she’s seconds from lunging at him, and I’m going to have to tenderly ask her not to pet Charlie while he has his vest on.

Mr. Broaden notices that something has caught his daughter’s eye and he turns.

And then, BAM. The most spectacular pair of blue eyes hits me, and I almost feel like taking a step back. I’m staring into his eyes and dreaming of swimming in the shallow part of the ocean where you can still see your feet but the water is so blue that it looks like God dipped his brush in it after painting the sky. I immediately appreciate the way his eyes perfectly contrast the white cotton t-shirt that’s straining over his chest and shoulders.

I mean, wowza. Is this the kind of dad hospitals are cranking out these days? Where do I sign up?

I’ll take one dad with dirty-blond hair, tan skin, 6 ft tall, glittering blue eyes, and a chiseled body that makes my face turn into molten lava, please. Actually, better yet, I’ll just take this one. Thanks.

It’s impressive how quickly my mind absorbs the information that his ring finger is blissfully empty. Not a tan line in sight.

“Mr. Broaden?” I ask, sounding a little too excited for my taste. Take it down a notch, Evie.