Page 73 of Lift Me Up

When Ricardo arrives, and has to tell him everything, he needs my hand in his, a gentle squeeze as if to say I am not going anywhere. I am here.

I just have to hope that's good enough for now.

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

GEORGIE

Here is what I know about love.

1. It really is blind.

2. Sometimes, it fucking sucks.

3. Just when everything is going right, something goes wrong.

4. It is easier to be unhappy and alone than happy and together and waiting for the inevitable downfall.

5. The inevitable downfall hurts so much worse than it looks in movies.

Sienna was in pre-term labour from something called placenta previa, her placenta covered the opening of her uterus and caused the bleeding. Luckily, they were able to get her comfortable and control the bleeding, and managed to stop pre-term delivery with medications to stop contractions. That little bean has a little longer to cook in that belly before we're ready to see them. Sienna is home and resting and is absolutely miserable, which takes up most of Noah's time when he's not working at the craft store with me or spending the night at my place. We’ve fallen back into a rhythm, but it feels like we’re toeing a tightrope that could break at any moment.

I've always worn my heart on my sleeve, but that often got me in trouble. In eighth grade, I was absolutely smitten with Billy Tomas, and he absolutely despised me. This meant that any time I tried to interact with him, it was with much disdain that he put up with my existence and fondness. I was so blinded by the crush, I didn't notice the crush he himself had on Kendra, the popular girl in school that year.

Eventually, I grew out of unrequited love with Billy, mostly because I was 11 and realized our names would likely be shortened to Bill and George in our later life, and that sounded awful to me. But what I also realized was how much I could hold onto someone or something without even trying to, and how my heart felt broken after I lost that. Loving Noah is kind of like that too. I love him, I am in love with him, I want everything with him, and yet I know I can't have all these things without some sort of repercussion. The universe never fails to give something in return when something is taken. If I take the relationship with Noah, what does the universe throw at me?

The thing is, we're pretending everything is fine, but it's far from fine. He doesn't ask about the picc line in my arm and antibiotics that come home on a pump I have to change daily. He doesn't ask why I wouldn't let him come to see me in the hospital. He doesn't really say much of anything, and neither do I. We're comfortably content saying nothing at all, which is almost worse. We know what needs to be said, we know what we should be doing, but we just... can't. The true question is how do you intentionally interrupt a delicate balance of things and say how you're feeling, knowing it may ruin everything or make it that much more tense? We're borderline territory where we know things will be said we don't want to hear, so we just pretend that everything, all the feelings, the emotions, the hurt and the anger and the talk that we really need to have but refuse to, don't exist. And it works for a while, until it doesn't.

The day it starts that inevitable fall we've been teetering on the top of, is also the day that Birdie's adoption goes through.

"What do you mean she's been adopted by another family? I put in my application for her adoption weeks ago. I've fostered her for three months, and you're just telling me now that I have to break a bond with her because another family was approved?" I say this into the phone with a lump in my throat, a pounding in my head and the sound of my heart pulsing in my ears.

A worker I've never met at PPP clears her throat, "I am sorry, Georgia. I know how much you care for Birdie, but we had a few adoption applications to choose from, and the family was chosen."

"So what, you threw our names into a hat and went, 'hm yeah, that one will do'?" She says nothing to this. I pinch the bridge of my nose to ward away the burning tears threatening to fall. "What if I refuse to bring her back? Couldn't you just tell the family she's unavailable?"

"We would send a worker with a police officer to pick her up, if that were the case. Honestly, Georgia, I wish there was something more I could do. Please don't make this difficult."

"You realize what you're doing, right? Noah trained her specifically for me, my needs. She's bonded. She's settled. She hasn't been brought back once, has she? I want her. She’s happy with me, and now you want me to give her away?" Silence. I let out a choked off sob, "When do I have to bring her in?"

"End of day. The family will be here after the father is done with work."

"Fine. You know, if she were staying with me, she'd never be alone. She comes to work with me. Everyone loves her. I love her. But I guess that doesn't matter, does it?"

"We'll see you soon, Georgia." The line goes dead on the other end.

I scream, hurling my phone across the room and hiding my face in my hands to muffle the sobs. I don't even care that I hear the shattering smash, the tell-tale sign I have officially fucked my phone over for the last time. Birdie comes over to distract me from the panic rising in my chest like a weight I can't lift. She rests her head on my knees, and I pull her in, hold her close and sob into her soft fur. She rests her chin on my shoulder in this new position, and I scream cry until my voice is lost, and all that remains are tears that she kisses away from my face.

"You're going to be a good girl, okay? This new family, you have to be good. They'll... never love you as much as I do, but they're good people. Okay? You have to be a good girl, make them love you, show them why you're the goodest girl." I smooth her fur and straighten her headband once again as I kneel in front of her in the front of PPP, waiting with a volunteer to hand over the leash to my dog that is no longer mine.

"You're sure they'll know how to do her skin treatments?"

The worker sighs, "Yes, we gave them a workshop. Honestly, if this is going to be too hard, you can just hand over the leash and I can⁠—"

"No. No." I snatch the leash back, holding onto it like a lifeline for as long as I have it left.

"There they are." She points to a family of four walking their way over to us.

The father is tall, broad, with a receding hairline. He looks absolutely exhausted. The mother wears a stained top with frumpy leggings, her hair framing her face from where it falls out of her bun. The kids, a little girl and a younger boy, look like rough-and-tumble kids. They look like they’d use a dog as a ride-and-go pony, like they're going to struggle to get on a proper schedule with her, like they're going to forget everything Birdie needs. I say none of this, because the worker is watching me cautiously and I don't want to be told to go away until the last possible minute.