It was a well-groomed Scottie dog that first attracted me to what I called the Elite Dog Park, a mound of Astroturf in the shape of an elongated triangle tucked into a trendy section of the city near Dupont Circle. I was walking around aimlessly on an early spring day, and I noticed the dog’s owner, dressed in a three-piece suit, cream on cream, right out of The Great Gatsby. He pulled out a shiny silver bowl from his leather briefcase and poured the Scottie some Pellegrino from the signature green bottle. The dog took a few licks and then smiled, as if all the other dogs were so beneath him, drinking (gasp) tap water that flowed from a little fountain in the corner of the park. What surprised me the most was that all the other dog owners didn’t seem to notice. Perhaps they’d seen it before? I found my mouth agape, and I was magnetically drawn through the double wrought iron gates.
Of course, I didn’t know that would be the day that changed everything. After four years of the disaster that was my relationship with Jack, I had also recently lost my job in New York City and moved in with my brother, Brady, in DC, where he was a trending restaurateur. His apartment, which he rarely spent any time in, was a modern penthouse in Logan Circle. It was super chic, with floor-to-ceiling windows, marble bathrooms, and a wraparound terrace. I showed up there jobless, penniless, single, and quickly approaching my midthirties. I would say it was the hands of fate, but they felt more like claws.
After another few licks of the Pellegrino, the Scottie just sat at his owner’s feet, blinking slowly and looking around the park at the other dogs, which were mostly in a state of chaotic bliss. This little canine couldn’t be bothered, and Gatsby had a similar expression, glancing at the vintage Rolex on his tanned wrist. He was tall and quarterback-handsome, probably in his midforties. I wondered if he was straight. I tried to imagine myself as his educated wife, spending my time throwing parties for charities, procuring art for billionaires, lunching at the club, aging gracefully in our beach house.
That sounded much better than reality, where I had wasted several years stupidly thinking Jack was going to ask me to marry him. We lived above a bakery, so our apartment smelled like butter and hope. It was easy the first year. We slept well together, the sex was tame but meaningful and sweet. The second year was a blur, both of us working too much and in our own orbits. Then the third year we caught some romance back, he kissed me down in the bakery and carried me up the stairs for some afternoon delight. Maybe it was all the cinnamon and sugar we were eating, but I could picture us together for the long haul, even though he had a patch of wiry hair on his upper back and I hated his mother. He could make a red sauce from scratch, had really good teeth, and was easy to be around. But then he withdrew again, and when I tried to talk to him about it, he was an emotional brick wall. The bakery shut down, and it wasn’t only the air that went stale. Months went by where it seemed like he didn’t even acknowledge that I was alive, that I lived with him, that I left signs-of-existence hairs on the sink, paperbacks on the counter, a scrunchie hanging on the door handle.
Toward the end, he reentered my orbit and started being really nice. We went to see this trendy band in Brooklyn and danced until we were sweating, and on the way home the Uber driver was texting and Jack cursed him out. I had never seen him do anything like that, and it was kind of sexy. During that car ride, I had a feeling of something shifting between us, and I thought he was finally going to propose. I envisioned rose petals in our apartment, warm candles, one of his old-school Spotify playlists on.
When we got home, I snuck into the bedroom and changed into the sexiest lingerie I owned while he went to the kitchen for a beer. My heart was palpitating. I was reeling with possibility. I tried to sit on the bed casually, but every position seemed staged. When he finally came in, he had this really sad