Oh You're Better Off Without Her Anyway
6 days ago, Alex’s POV:
My house is dark, dark counters, walls, and accents. I wake up alone, taking my time to remember last night, that might’ve been the best sex of my life. Emphasis on “might”.
It's late; past noon, I slept well. Getting up, I throw on grey sweatpants and a compression shirt, walking through massive doors to the main area of my house, the kitchen staring me in the face. I narrow my eyes, telling it to go fuck itself. I’ve been irritated lately—band drama.
I don’t like what Matt has turned into, he's married to Brenna, and he has a kid but it doesn't stop him from getting too close to women at bars. He’s a shit dad, I feel bad for his kid. I hate kids but his doesn’t open it’s mouth much so I don't mind. But apparently, that means it has trauma, at least it’ll be funny. His wife makes him bring it around a lot, it's got long hair but I don't remember if it's a boy or girl. My money’s on lesbian.
I'd rather not confront the fact that we’re running out of time. Jamie’s my only real friend right now, Nick is drifting. I'm the only one writing anything like it usually is, but now Matt’s mad about it like he ever had any good ideas. By now I'm just my own artist with tracks going in the background. We all have to be drunk to do any performances and the vibe is just off. We need a few more songs for the new album… then we can tour… and then we, what, break up? Everything’s off, it's hell.
I brush my teeth and wash my face before wandering to my kitchen again, making oatmeal and eating it in front of the T.V. I don't have anything to do today so I go to the gym. If half of your fans are just really horny women you need to stay in shape. I work abs and arms for a few hours before driving home.
I’m almost there when my phone rings.
I look down at the passenger seat where it sits.
Shit.
Its Kat.
What do I do?
I pick up and her voice plays on my car speakers, “Alex?”
My heart flutters, and I beam, imagining the sight of her blonde hair and green eyes, “Yeah?”
“I know it's been a few years but-” I think my heart’s gonna jump out of my chest, “-do you still have that butter chicken recipe? I want to make it for my kids.”
Yeah… your kids, Vale’s kids. That you had after you told me you didn't want any.
I want to lie to her but I cant, “Yeah I'll text it to you.”
“Kay, thanks,” she hangs up.
I sit in the silence, letting it absorb.
All it took was one call, all it could’ve taken was one word.
I step out of the car, slam the door, and thunder into my flat, getting to my apartment, my first move is pulling out some whisky.
I’m lonely.
Maybe I should get a dog.
I knock back as much as I can in one gulp.
That's actually a great idea.
I'll get it from a shelter, a big dog, and they come with names so I don't have to think of any.
Then I'm out of the house again, praising myself for doing something productive instead of day drinking alone until I pass out on my couch.
I decide to go to the shelter first, it'd be weird to go to a pet store when you don't actually have a dog.
The lady at the desk is very nice and she doesn't recognize me, even though she can immediately tell what I'm going to do, “Are you going to be back in a few days when it barrels into your island and trashes your kitchen?”
“No ma'am,” I shake my head.
“Do you have a backyard?”
“Kinda.”
“What does your house look like?”
“It's a top-level flat but no one lives below me. I have stairs down into the yard. I usually keep my back door hidden, I have a nice place but I'm not one for the whole outside time thing so my yard is dead.”
She looks me up and down, “I could tell.”
Flipping blonde hair, the four-foot woman leads me to concrete isles of dogs who immediately start barking as we enter. I stroll through packs of disgusting Bulldogs and yippy Chihuahuas, Huskies, and puppies that will get adopted immediately. On the occasion my eye is drawn it's to a Pitbull, Great Dane, or Rottweiler.
I stop for one dog, crouching, “How long has he been here?”
“She,” the woman corrects, “a few months. She's friendly,” a little grey pittie sits, panting, big eyes looking up at me, “about six months old.”
“Can I say hi?”
The woman lets me in, she doesn't jump on me but sits in front of my feet, I scratch her head, smiling, “What's her name?”
“We don't give them names unless they've been here for a year, people like naming their own dogs. She's spayed, got vaccines, all that, kind of potty trained. She’ll grow, about ten pounds.”
She dances on her feet and I sit on the floor with her, patting her back while she pants, “I want this one.”
I hear the woman sigh behind me, “You can have her after you do about an hour of paperwork and pay six hundred bucks.”
I stand up but she keeps looking at me like she’s waiting for an answer, I nod, “Okay,” this time her sigh is accompanied by an eye roll, “Women,” I mutter under my breath.
“Does Alex Turner really need a dog?” she asks.
“Shit,” I swear, “I look like him but I'm not him.”
“How much money do you make a year?” she raises a brow, setting her hand on her hip, I pull out my wallet and hand her a hundred pounds, “I’m going to need more than that.”
This bitch is almost as horrible as the ex that hit me in my balls with a heated curling iron.
By the time I’m done with the paperwork she walks off with eight hundred quid, then I have to shop for the dog. I was thinking of naming her Molly but that was too basic so I think I’ll call her Marley. Her color will be red.
I buy her a massive crate, red collar, chain collar, puppy feed, slow feeder bowls, water bowl, a bed, toys, leash, a dog seat belt, training treats, nail clippers, dog wipes, dog toothbrush, dog soap, lick mats, waterproof feeding mat, paw cleaner, a bandana, clicker, dog first aid kit, bones, a very cute hoodie, a tag with her name on it, a bathrobe (with ducks on it), pet hair remover, her own towel… and poop bags.
Her inability to use the bathroom will not stop me though, because I signed the papers, and I'll let her out in my backyard and get those rake things that fat old people use.
Then I get to take her home, I can see her smiling as she trots out of the pound and hops into the passenger seat of my car. When I get in I look over at her.
“Was this a good idea- oh–ow shit!” She jumps from the passenger to my seat, trying to constrict my lungs as best she can, “I’m sorry!”
Eventually, I get her back in place, this time making sure her seatbelt is secure, shoving my finger in her face, “I am a cool guy, you are not to mess with me and girls, the money I use to buy you these things comes from me regularly making bad decisions with women and taking acid at three pm. Am I understood?” She licks my finger, “Ew. And don't worry about the car, some hookup scratched my seats, stained ‘em too.”
I start my car and throughout the drive, I have to outwardly say, “This is a good idea, and if anybody asks you don't exist.”
Luckily Marley doesn't know she can beg for me to roll down the windows, we should be good, the tint I have is practically illegal.
When we finally arrive at my house she runs around, sprinting in and out of the backyard. As night falls she watches a show with me, and I don't think I’ve smiled this much in a while. For a few months I might be able to convince myself this fills the hole, though this dog will never be seeing that pound again.