#spork

the thing about jointly adopting a dog with your best friend at two in the morning during finals week is that it seems like a great idea until four years later when you’re texting said friend about custody arrangements and she responds with “we can meet but i’m bringing my lawyer” and you’re ninety percent sure she’s joking but only ninety percent.

you’re back in los angeles after four years in san francisco, and the first order of business before unpacking, before setting up your new apartment, before doing literally anything else is apparently meeting your ex-best-friend (a term that makes you cringe) in a coffee shop to negotiate visitation rights for a blind chihuahua named spork.

your lawyer is a pad of paper with “TALKING POINTS” written at the top in sharpie. angela’s lawyer is apparently just her, sitting across from you in ripped jeans and a vintage hoodie, looking simultaneously like she wants to hug you and like she wants to throw her iced coffee in your face.

“so.” she says.

“so…” you echo.

spork is not present for this negotiation. angela had texted he’s at home, didn’t want to stress him out which is probably code for “i didn’t want to give you the satisfaction of seeing how much he’d freak out over you being back.”

the coffee shop is too loud. some indie song is playing overhead and a group of film students are having an intense argument about auteur theory two tables over. angela is doing that thing where she tears her napkin into tiny shreds, which means she’s either nervous or annoyed or both.

“you look good.” you try, because someone has to start this conversation.

“thanks. you too.” she doesn’t look up from the napkin execution. “very san francisco of you.”

“what does that mean?”

“i don’t know. you just look expensive now.”

you glance down at your outfit. jeans and a plain t-shirt, nothing fancy. “i’m wearing target.”

“expensive target, then.”

this is going well. super well. you’re absolutely nailing this reunion.

“look,” you say, “i know this is weird—”

“it’s not weird.”

“—but we’re both adults and we both love spork—”

“i love spork,” angela interrupts. “you sent me money sometimes and asked how he was doing over text. that’s not the same thing.”

there it is. the thing you knew was coming but still hits like a punch to the gut.

“that’s not fair.” you say quietly.

“no, you’re right. i’m sorry.” she doesn’t sound sorry. she sounds tired. “i’ve just had him for four years. by myself. and now you’re back and you want to what, split custody? like he’s not a living thing that’s been with me this entire time?”

“i paid for half his vet bills—”

“money’s not the same as being there when he had that seizure last year. money’s not the same as sleeping on the bathroom floor with him when he had that stomach thing. money’s not—” she stops, takes a breath. “i’m not trying to be a bitch about this.”

“could’ve fooled me.”

her eyes flash. “you left. you left and you took this job and you barely called and when you did call it was always ‘how’s spork’ and never ‘how are you’ so forgive me if i’m a little bitter about you waltzing back into la and expecting everything to be the same.”

the film students have gone quiet. you think they might be eavesdropping. great.

“i didn’t waltz,” you mutter. “i got transferred. my company opened an office here.”

“you could’ve said no.”

“why would i say no? my entire life was here before i left.”

“was it?” angela asks, and there’s something sharp in her voice. “because it seemed pretty easy for you to go.”

you don’t know what to say to that. because she’s right and she’s wrong and this whole conversation is veering into territory you’re not ready to navigate in a coffee shop in silver lake at eleven in the morning on a tuesday.

“can we just—” you pinch the bridge of your nose.

“can we figure out the spork thing? please?”

angela sits back, arms crossed. “fine. what do you want?”

“i want to see him. spend time with him. he’s my dog too.”

“our dog.”

“right. our dog.”

she’s quiet for a moment, studying you in that unnerving way she does. angela’s always been able to read you too easily, see past whatever bullshit you’re trying to pull. it’s one of the things you loved about her. love about her. fuck.

“okay,” she says finally. “we can do a trial run. you can take him on weekends or something.”

“weekends?”

“you have a better idea?”

“that’s like… glorified dog-sitting. i want actual custody.”

“he’s not a child. we don’t need to go to court about this.”

“you’re the one who threatened to bring a lawyer!”

“i was joking!”

“i said i was only ninety percent sure!”

the barista looks over at you. you both immediately lower your voices.

“fine.” angela says. “fifty-fifty. we split the week. but i’m keeping him at my place primarily because that’s where all his stuff is and where he knows the layout and i’m not disrupting his routine just because you decided to come back.”

the way she says “decided to come back” stings more than it should.

“fine,” you agree, even though nothing about this is fine. “we can alternate. i’ll take him monday and tuesday, you take him wednesday and thursday, and we switch off weekends.”

“that’s a lot of back and forth.”

“you just said fifty-fifty!”

“i know what i said, i’m just saying it’s not practical—”

“oh i’m sorry, is my presence inconvenient for you?”

angela’s jaw clenches. “that’s not what i meant.”

“then what did you mean?”

she stares at you for a long moment, and you watch something complicated cross her face. anger, maybe. or hurt. or some combination of the two that you don’t have the right to parse anymore.

“forget it,” she mutters. “mondays and tuesdays are fine. i’ll text you my address.”

“i know your address.”

“i moved.”

“oh.”

of course she moved. four years is a long time. people move, people change, people build entire lives in the absence you leave behind.

angela stands up, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “i’ll drop him off monday around six. try not to rearrange your furniture without warning him first.”

it takes you a second to realize she’s referencing the time spork ran into a wall because you’d moved the couch two feet to the left. it was during exam season junior year and you’d been stress-cleaning at two in the morning, and angela had come running out of her room at the sound of the collision, and you’d both ended up on the floor with spork between you, checking him over while trying not to laugh at how ridiculous the whole situation was.

you’d caught her eye over spork’s head and she’d been smiling, really smiling, and for a second you’d thought—

but that was then. that was college. that was before.

“i’ll keep the furniture exactly where it is.” you say.

“good.”

she’s halfway to the door when you call out, “angela.”

she turns.

“it’s good to see you. i know this is weird and you’re pissed at me, and you have every right to be, but… it’s good to see you.”

something in her expression softens, just slightly. “yeah. you too.”

and then she’s gone, and you’re sitting alone in a too-loud coffee shop with cold coffee and a napkin full of talking points you never used, wondering how the hell you’re going to survive this custody arrangement when just looking at angela makes your chest feel like it’s caving in.

monday arrives too quickly and not quickly enough.

you’ve spent the weekend making your apartment as dog-friendly as possible. you’ve bought new food bowls, a fancy orthopedic dog bed, the specific brand of treats angela mentioned spork likes in a text from eight months ago that you definitely didn’t keep starred in your messages.

at 6:15pm, there’s a knock on your door.

spork is older than you remember. grayer around the muzzle, moving a little slower, but the second you kneel down he’s immediately in your lap, tail going absolutely feral, making these little whimpering sounds that dogs make when they’re too happy to contain it.

“hey buddy,” you murmur, and your voice cracks embarrassingly. “hey, i missed you. i missed you so much.”

he’s licking your face with the enthusiasm of a dog who has been personally victimized by your absence, and you’re trying really hard not to cry in front of angela, who’s standing in your doorway with spork’s travel bag and a complicated expression.

“he remembers you,” she says quietly.

“of course he does.”

“i wasn’t sure if he would. it’s been a long time.”

four years, two months, and sixteen days.

you finally stand up, spork still in your arms. angela hands you the bag—it’s navy blue with spork’s name embroidered on the side, definitely not the ratty old backpack you used to transport him in.

“there’s a list inside,” angela says, not quite meeting your eyes. “his medication schedule, his food portions, things that trigger his anxiety. he doesn’t like loud noises or sudden movements. he needs his eyedrops twice a day for the cataracts. and he sleeps better with a light on because the complete darkness disorients him even though he can’t see anyway, we think it’s a comfort thing—”

“ang. i know how to take care of him.”

“you knew how to take care of him four years ago. he’s different now. he’s old.”

he’s ten, which is old for a chihuahua, but the way she says it makes it sound like he’s ancient. fragile. like she’s trusting you with something precious and she’s not sure you deserve that trust.

“i’ll take good care of him,” you say. “i promise.”

angela finally looks at you, and there’s something raw in her eyes. “he’s all i had, you know. when you left. he was all i had left of… everything.”

the everything hangs between you, weighted with four years of things unsaid.

“i’m sorry,” you tell her, and you mean it. “i’m sorry i left the way i did.”

“you got a good job. you were allowed to leave.”

“i could’ve handled it better.”

“yeah,” she agrees. “you could’ve.”

spork wriggles in your arms, trying to get to angela. she reaches out automatically to pet him, and for a moment you’re both holding him, your hands almost touching in his fur.

“i should go.” angela says, pulling back. “call me if anything happens. or if you have questions. or if he seems off at all.”

“i will.”

she’s backing toward the hallway, and you’re standing in your doorway, and it feels like something is ending before it even began.

“same time wednesday?” you ask.

“yeah. six o’clock.”

“okay.”

“okay.”

she’s at the elevator now. you should close the door. you should go inside and start your two days with spork and not think about the way angela looked when she said “he was all i had left of everything.”

“hey ang?” you call out.

she turns, hand on the elevator button.

“do you want to maybe… get coffee? sometime? not to talk about spork. just to talk. talk about us.”

she’s quiet for so long you think she’s going to say no. then: “maybe. let me think about it.”

the elevator dings. she steps inside. the doors close.

you go back into your apartment with spork and try not to think about how maybe isn’t yes but it isn’t no either, and how that’s probably the best you’re going to get right now.

turns out, taking care of a blind geriatric chihuahua is both exactly like you remember and completely different.

spork still hates the sound of the blender. still loves classical music. still has a vendetta against anyone smelling lavender, which you discover when your neighbor stops by to borrow sugar and spork loses his tiny mind.

but he’s also slower now. more anxious. he follows you from room to room like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he loses track of you, and it breaks your heart a little bit every time.

you work from home on tuesday, and spork sleeps under your desk, his little body warm against your feet.

you send angela a photo, “someone’s making sure i’m productive”

she responds three hours later, “he’s supervising. he takes his job very seriously”

you: he’s literally asleep

angela: he’s SUPERVISING

wednesday arrives too fast. you pack up spork’s things and try not to feel weird about the fact that you’re going to angela’s new apartment. the one you’ve never been to. the one she got after you left.

it’s in los feliz, which makes sense. angela always loved this neighborhood. you used to come here for brunch on weekends, back when weekends meant something different.

her apartment is on the third floor. you can hear music playing inside when you knock—something indie and vaguely melancholic. very on-brand.

angela opens the door in paint-stained sweatpants and a tank top, her hair piled on top of her head. there’s a smudge of what looks like acrylic paint on her jaw.

“you paint now?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

she touches her face self-consciously. “i’m taking a class. it’s stupid.”

“it’s not stupid.”

“you haven’t seen my paintings.”

“i bet they’re good.”

“you’re required to say that. dog custody diplomacy.”

but she’s almost smiling, and you count that as a win.

spork knows exactly where he is the second you step inside. he immediately starts his usual routine—three steps forward, bump into the couch, recalibrate, continue to his water bowl. angela’s set up the furniture the exact same way as the old apartment, you realize. so he knows the layout.

“you kept the same configuration.” you say.

“it’s easier for him. he’s got the whole place memorized.”

you look around while angela gets spork settled. the apartment is so quintessentially her it makes your chest tight. vintage concert posters on the walls, a healthy collection of plants somehow thriving, a bookshelf full of comedy books and scripts. there are photos too—her at various comedy shows, her with friends you recognize and some you don’t. none of you, you notice. not a single one.

“nice place.” you offer.

“thanks. it’s smaller than the old one but the light’s better.”

the old one. the apartment you shared. the place where you’d spent four years learning exactly how angela took her coffee and what her pre-show anxiety looked like and how she’d sing in the shower when she thought you couldn’t hear.

“do you want something to drink?” angela asks. “i have water. and… water.”

“you don’t have coffee?”

“i have coffee but i’m out of milk and you drink it with milk.”

she remembers how you take your coffee. you’re trying not to read into that.

“water’s fine.”

you end up sitting at her kitchen counter while she fusses over spork, and it’s so familiar it hurts. this is what you did every day for four years. existed in each other’s spaces like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“he was good?” angela asks, not looking at you. “no problems?”

“he was perfect. we watched a lot of true crime documentaries. he’s very opinionated about unsolved cases.”

that gets a smile out of her. a real one. “he always takes the side of the most obvious suspect.”

“right? he’s got no patience for nuance.”

“he’s a simple man with simple needs.”

you’re both looking at spork now, who’s passed out in his bed, absolutely exhausted from the ordeal of changing locations.

“i’m glad he got to see you,” angela says quietly. “he’s been different since you left. more anxious. i think he missed you.”

“just him?”

it comes out before you can stop it. angela’s eyes snap to yours.

“that’s not fair,” she says.

“i know. i’m sorry.”

“you don’t get to—” she stops, takes a breath. “you left, y/n. you made that choice. and i respected it even though it sucked, and i took care of spork and i built my life here and i was fine. i am fine.”

“okay.”

“i’m just saying, you don’t get to come back and make me feel guilty for being hurt.”

“i’m not trying to—” you run a hand through your hair. “i’m not trying to make you feel guilty. i just… i missed you. both of you. and i know that’s my fault for leaving but i did. i missed you.”

angela’s gripping the edge of the counter. “why did you leave?”

“i told you. the job—”

“no, i mean why did you really leave? because we were fine. we were good. and then you got this offer and you just… went. you didn’t even try to find something here. you didn’t ask me what i thought. you just made the decision and left and i—” her voice cracks. “i didn’t understand. i still don’t understand.”

this is the conversation you’ve been avoiding for three years. the one you knew was coming the second you decided to move back to la.

“i was scared,” you admit.

“of what?”

“of us. of what we were. what we were becoming.”

angela stares at you. “what were we becoming?”

“ang, come on. we lived together. we adopted a dog together. we fell asleep on the couch together more nights than not. we were…” you trail off, not sure how to finish that sentence.

“we were friends,” angela says, but she doesn’t sound convinced.

“were we? because i’ve had friends. and none of them ever made me feel the way you did. the way you do.”

“stop.”

“angela—”

“no, you don’t get to do this.” she’s backing away now, arms wrapped around herself. “you don’t get to leave for four years and come back and say this shit like it changes anything.”

“i’m not trying to change anything—”

“then what are you trying to do?”

“i don’t know! i’m trying to figure out how to be around you again without feeling like i’m constantly fucking it up!”

the silence that follows is deafening. spork snores peacefully, oblivious to the emotional carnage happening above him.

“you should go.” angela says finally.

“ang—”

“please. just… go. i’ll see you monday.”

you want to argue. want to stay and force this conversation to its conclusion. but angela won’t look at you, and you’ve already pushed too hard, so you just nod and head for the door.

“y/n.” calls when your hand’s on the doorknob.

you turn.

“i missed you too,” she says. “for the record. i missed you so much it felt like i couldn’t breathe sometimes. but that doesn’t mean i’m ready to just… pick up where we left off. i don’t even know where we left off.”

“neither do i.” you admit.

“so maybe we figure that out first. before we try to figure out anything else.”

“okay. yeah. we can do that.”

you leave before you can say anything else stupid, and you sit in your car for ten minutes before driving away, and you don’t let yourself cry until you’re safely back in your own apartment.

this is fine. everything’s fine.

the custody exchanges become a routine. mondays and wednesdays at six. you drop off, angela picks up. sometimes you chat for a few minutes. sometimes it’s just a quick handoff. you’re both being very careful, very polite. it’s awful.

your friends ask how it’s going.

“fine.” you lie. “we’re co-parenting like mature adults.”

“are you talking about the thing?” your best friend asks.

“there’s no thing.”

“there’s definitely a thing. there’s always been a thing with you two.”

“we’re just friends.”

“you lived together for four years and jointly adopted a dog. that’s not normal friendship behavior.”

“we were in college. everything’s weird in college.”

“you’re avoiding the thing.”

you are absolutely avoiding the thing. the thing is too big and too complicated and you’re not ready to look at it directly yet.

but then it’s week three, and you show up for the wednesday exchange, and angela looks terrible. not terrible like she looks bad—she could never look bad—but terrible like she hasn’t slept. like she’s been crying. her eyes are red-rimmed and her hair is messy in the way that means she’s been running her hands through it, and she’s wearing the hoodie she always wears when she’s upset.

“what’s wrong?” you ask immediately, spork forgotten in your arms.

“nothing. i’m fine.”

“you’re not fine.”

“it’s not your problem.”

“angela, what happened?”

she’s not looking at you. “i had a show tonight. it went badly.”

angela doesn’t talk about when shows go badly. she’s got this thing where she pretends everything’s fine even when it’s not, where she processes her feelings internally and then makes jokes about it later once she’s dealt with it.

the fact that she’s admitting this means it went really badly.

“i’m sorry,” you say. “do you want to talk about it?”

“not really.”

you stand there in her doorway, uncertain. spork is trying to get to angela, so you hand him over. she takes him automatically, burying her face in his fur.

“i bombed,” she says, muffled. “like completely ate shit. there was this heckler and i tried to handle it but i just… froze. and then i tried to recover but everything i said just made it worse and people were leaving and i could see the club owner looking pissed and i just—” she stops. takes a shaky breath. “i feel like i’m not getting anywhere. like i’ve been doing this for years and i’m still bombing at open mics.”

your heart breaks a little. “you’re brilliant, ang. one bad show doesn’t change that.”

“it’s not one bad show. it’s like… constant rejection and constant feeling like i’m not good enough and i’m so tired, y/n. i’m so tired of trying so hard and getting nowhere.”

she’s crying now. proper crying. and you’re still in the doorway, and every instinct you have is screaming at you to hug her, to fix this, to make it better.

“can i come in?” you ask quietly.

she nods, stepping back.

you close the door behind you and gently take spork from her arms, setting him down in his bed. then you turn back to angela, who’s just standing there looking lost.

“come here,” you say.

she falls into your arms like she’s been waiting for permission. you hold her while she cries into your shoulder, one hand rubbing circles on her back the way you used to when she’d get stressed about exams or auditions or life in general.

“you’re good at this,” you murmur. “you’re so good at this. i’ve watched your stuff online. you’re funny and smart and you have a voice that matters.”

“you watched my stuff?”

“of course i watched your stuff. all of it. every video you posted, every show you mentioned. i’ve been watching from san francisco like a creepy stalker.”

she laughs wetly against your shoulder. “that is pretty creepy.”

“i’m supportive creepy. there’s a difference.”

you end up on her couch, angela curled into your side like no time has passed at all. spork has somehow made it up onto the couch too and is sprawled across both your laps, snoring peacefully.

“i’m sorry i fell apart on you,” angela says after a while. “i know we’re doing the whole civil co-parenting thing.”

“hey, emotional breakdowns are part of the package. it’s in the custody agreement. page seven, subsection three.”

“there’s no page seven.”

“sure there is. right after the part about alternating holidays.”

she elbows you halfheartedly. you can feel her smiling against your shoulder though.

“i’m glad you’re here,” she admits quietly. “even though i was so mad at you. even though part of me still is. i’m glad you came back.”

“me too.”

“and not just for spork.”

your heart does a complicated thing in your chest. “no?”

“no. i just—” she pulls back slightly to look at you. her eyes are still puffy from crying but there’s something soft in them. “i don’t know how to do this. be around you and not be everything we were before. but i don’t want to not be around you.”

“we could try being different things,” you suggest. “new things. we don’t have to be what we were in college.”

“what would we be?”

“i don’t know. friends who are actually friends? who talk about real shit instead of just spork’s bowel movements?”

“his bowel movements are important.”

“they are very important. i’m just saying we could also talk about other things.”

angela’s quiet for a moment, considering. “like what?”

“like how you’re feeling. how comedy’s going. what else you’re doing besides the shows. i want to know about your life, ang. i want to actually be in it again, not just adjacent to it.”

“that sounds suspiciously like a friendship.”

“it is a friendship. we’re building it from scratch. no assumptions, no history, just… starting over.”

“we have a lot of history.”

“okay, starting over but acknowledging the history. new friendship, built on the foundation of the old friendship, co-parenting a blind chihuahua.”

she’s smiling now. really smiling. “when you put it that way it sounds almost normal.”

“we’ve never been normal.”

“true.”

spork shifts between you, grumbling in his sleep. angela reaches down to pet him absently, and her hand brushes yours. neither of you pulls away.

“so we’re doing this?” she asks. “the friendship thing?”

“if you want to.”

“i do. but i have conditions.”

“of course you do.”

“you have to actually tell me things. no more disappearing into your own head and making decisions without talking to me first.”

“that’s fair.”

“and you have to come to my shows. not all of them, but like… some of them. when you can.”

“i can do that.”

“and you have to be patient with me. because i’m still kind of mad at you and i don’t know how long it’ll take for that to go away.”

“i can be patient.”

she studies your face like she’s looking for the catch. “okay. we can try the friendship thing.”

it’s not a resolution. it’s not a happy ending. it’s just two people who used to know everything about each other trying to figure out how to know each other again.

but it’s a start.

you end up staying for another hour, just talking. angela tells you about the comedy scene, about the other performers she’s been working with. you tell her about san francisco, about the job you left behind, about why you came back. (the promotion was part of it, but mostly you were just tired of being away.)

when you finally leave, angela walks you to the door with spork in her arms.

“same time monday?” she asks.

“actually,” you say, “what if we did something different?”

“different how?”

“what if instead of just trading him back and forth, we did like… joint custody days? where we’re both there?”

angela raises an eyebrow. “like parallel parenting?”

“sure. we could take him to the dog park or something. together.”

“that’s either a really good idea or a terrible one.”

“probably both.”

she considers it. “okay. we can try it. but if spork gets confused and runs into things, i’m blaming you.”

“that’s fair.”

you’re halfway down the hallway when she calls out: “thanks. for tonight. for staying.”

you turn.

“anytime, angel.”

and you mean it.

the joint custody days become a thing.

saturday mornings at the dog park in griffith. angela brings coffee (she bought milk, you notice). you bring treats. spork mostly just stands in one spot and judges the other dogs, but he seems happy to be outside.

“he’s very critical,” angela observes as spork refuses to acknowledge a golden retriever trying to befriend him.

“he has standards.”

“he’s a seven-pound chihuahua.”

“a seven-pound chihuahua with standards.”

it’s easy, this. easier than you expected. you fall into conversation like you’re remembering how, talking about work and comedy and the new thai place that opened down the street from angela’s apartment. she tells you about the painting class (she’s terrible at it but it’s fun). you tell her about your terrible boss who keeps scheduling meetings at eight am.

it feels like friendship. like maybe you’re actually pulling this off.

week five, angela texts you on a thursday night, “emergency. need backup”

you call immediately. “what’s wrong? is spork okay?”

“spork’s fine. i’m dying. can you come to my show tomorrow?”

“you’re not dying.”

“i’m performing new material and i’m absolutely dying. i need a friendly face in the audience.”

“you want me to come to your show.”

“yes. please. i’ll owe you forever.”

you shouldn’t. you’re supposed to be taking this slow, rebuilding the friendship carefully. going to her show feels like too much too fast.

“what time?” you ask.

you can hear her relief through the phone. “nine. it’s at the improv lab in hollywood. and y/n? thank you.”

the show is good. better than good. angela’s fucking hilarious, and watching her on stage—confident and bright and so wholly herself, makes you remember why you fell into friendship with her in the first place. she’s magnetic.

afterward, you wait by the side of the stage while she talks to other performers. she spots you and her whole face lights up, and something in your chest goes warm.

“you came,” she says, slightly breathless.

“of course i came.”

“and?”

“you were incredible. seriously. the bit about your landlord? i almost cried laughing.”

she’s beaming. “really?”

“really.”

you end up at a diner at midnight, splitting fries and talking through the show. angela’s buzzing with adrenaline, talking fast and excited, and you just listen and watch her and think about how much you’ve missed this. not just angela, but this version of her. the one who’s pursuing her dreams and fighting for what she wants.

“i’m really proud of you.” you say at some point.

she pauses mid-fry. “yeah?”

“you’re doing it. the thing you always said you’d do.”

“it’s not exactly sold-out stadiums.”

“yet. it’s not sold-out stadiums yet.”

her smile is soft. “you always believed in me more than i believed in myself.”

“someone has to.”

you drive her home because she took an uber to the show. spork is waiting by the door when you arrive, and angela scoops him up immediately.

“successful show,” she tells him. “your other mom came to support me.”

“other mom?”

“what? we’re co-parenting. that makes us both his moms.”

“i thought you didn’t want to do the mom thing.”

“i changed my mind. spork has two moms now. he’s very progressive.”

you’re laughing, and angela’s laughing, and spork is trying to lick both your faces at once, and it’s midnight on a friday and you’re standing in angela’s apartment like you have a right to be there.

“i should go,” you say, even though you don’t want to.

“yeah. okay.”

neither of you moves.

“this is good,” angela says quietly. “what we’re doing. the friendship thing. it’s good.”

“yeah. it is.”

“i’m less mad at you than i was.”

“that’s progress.”

“don’t push your luck.”

but she’s smiling, and you’re smiling, and when you finally leave you sit in your car for five minutes just processing the fact that maybe you’re actually going to be okay.

it’s week eight when spork escapes.

you’re supposed to have him for the weekend, but you run out to grab coffee for literally ten minutes and apparently that’s all the time a blind chihuahua needs to squeeze through a door you definitely thought you closed all the way.

you return to an empty apartment and immediately panic.

you call angela. she doesn’t answer. you call again. and again. and finally, “what’s wrong?”

“spork’s gone. he got out. i’ve been looking for twenty minutes and i can’t find him and angela i’m so sorry, i thought i closed the door—”

“okay, breathe. where are you?”

“my apartment. i’ve checked the hallways and the stairs and—”

“i’m coming. stay there in case he comes back.”

she shows up fifteen minutes later in sweatpants and a jacket thrown over her pajamas, her hair unbrushed. you’ve never been so relieved to see anyone.

“tell me exactly what happened,” she says.

you do. she listens, already pulling out her phone to text neighbors and post in the building group chat.

“he can’t have gotten far,” she reasons. “he doesn’t move that fast. and he usually sticks to familiar places.”

“what if he’s scared? what if he’s hurt?”

“he’s fine. he’s survived this long by being a stubborn little shit. he’s not going to let a little thing like being blind and lost stop him.”

you spend the next hour searching. knocking on doors, calling his name, checking every corner and crevice. angela is methodical about it, creating a grid pattern, refusing to panic even though you can see the worry in her eyes.

you’re on the verge of calling animal control when your phone rings. unknown number.

“hello?”

“hello, i think i have your dog? little chihuahua? he was sitting outside my door.”

you almost drop the phone. “where are you?”

“apartment 3b.”

angela’s apartment building. he went to angela’s apartment building.

you look at angela. she’s already halfway to the stairs.

he’s there, sitting patiently outside 3b like he knew exactly where he was going. a kind-looking older woman—has given him water and is petting him gently.

“he just showed up about twenty minutes ago,” she explains. “seemed very determined. i recognized him from the elevator.”

angela scoops him up, and you can see her hands shaking slightly. “thank you so much. we’ve been looking everywhere.”

“how did he even know how to get here?” you ask once you’re back in the hallway.

“i have no idea. it’s like four blocks.”

“he can’t see.”

“i know.”

you both just stare at spork, who seems perfectly content now that he’s accomplished his mission of finding angela.

“he wanted you.” you say.

angela’s quiet for a moment. “or he wanted us both. and he knows we’re usually together at my place.”

the implication of that hangs in the air.

“do you want to come up?” angela asks. “you look like you need a drink.”

“it’s two in the afternoon.”

“fine. coffee then. you need coffee.”

you end up on her couch with spork between you, both of you still coming down from the adrenaline. angela makes coffee with the muscle memory of someone who’s done this a thousand times—one sugar for her, milk for you.

“i’m sorry,” you say. “i should’ve been more careful.”

“it’s not your fault. he’s an escape artist. he’s done this before.”

“he has?”

“yeah. a few months after you left, he got out and i found him three blocks away, sitting outside our old apartment building.”

your old apartment building. the one you lived in together.

“he was looking for you,” angela says softly. “or for both of us. for what things used to be.”

you look down at spork, this tiny blind dog who somehow navigates the world through sheer determination and stubbornness.

“he keeps trying to get us back together,” you observe.

“he’s a dog. he doesn’t understand that things change.”

“maybe he understands better than we do.”

angela looks at you. really looks at you. “what are you saying?”

“i’m saying maybe he’s onto something. we’re both miserable with this back and forth. we’re constantly texting each other anyway. we hang out more than we actually trade him off. and he clearly wants us both around.”

“so what, we just… what? live together again?”

“or something like that. i don’t know. i’m just saying this isn’t working. the separation thing.”

“we’re not together, y/n. we can’t separate from something we never were.”

there it is. the thing you’ve been dancing around for eight weeks.

“what were we?” you ask. “in college. what were we actually?”

angela’s quiet for a long time, petting spork. “i don’t know. we were us. that’s all i ever knew how to explain it.”

“and what are we now?”

“i don’t know that either.” she looks up at you, and there’s something vulnerable in her eyes. “but i know i like having you around again. i know spork is happier when we’re both here. and i know i’m tired of being mad at you for leaving when all i really wanted was for you to stay.”

“i’m not leaving again.”

“you can’t promise that.”

“i can. i am. i’m promising you right now that i’m not leaving. this is where i want to be.”

“in los angeles?”

“with you.”

the words hang there. too honest. too much. but you don’t take them back.

angela’s eyes are shiny. “don’t say shit like that if you don’t mean it.”

“i mean it. i’ve meant it for four years. i just didn’t know how to say it when we were twenty-two and i didn’t know what i wanted from life. but i know now. and what i want is this. you and me and our ridiculous blind dog who keeps running away to prove a point.”

“this is insane.”

“probably.”

“we don’t even know what this is.”

“we can figure it out.”

“what if we fuck it up?”

“then we fuck it up together.”

angela laughs, but it’s watery. “you’re really committing to this joint custody thing, huh?”

“i’m committing to whatever you want to try. friendship, roommates, co-parents, whatever. i just want to be in your life, ang. however you’ll have me.”

she’s crying now. proper crying. spork is trying to lick her tears away, which just makes her cry harder.

“we should probably start with roommates,” she says finally. “work our way up.”

your heart is doing olympic-level gymnastics in your chest. “really?”

“yeah. but we’re getting a bigger place. your apartment is too small for two people and a dog.”

“our apartment was smaller.”

“we were also poor college students. we can afford better now.”

“so we’re doing this.”

“we’re doing this.” she wipes her eyes. “but slowly. like, actual slow this time. not our usual version of slow where we jump in headfirst.”

“i can do slow.”

“and we have to talk. about everything. about what we were and what we are and what we want to be.”

“okay.”

“and you have to promise you’ll tell me if you’re freaking out or having doubts or thinking about leaving.”

“i promise.”

she’s looking at you like she’s trying to decide if she believes you. then she reaches over spork to take your hand, lacing your fingers together.

“i’m still a little mad at you.” she says.

“that’s fair.”

“but i’m really glad you came back.”

“me too.”

spork, satisfied with his matchmaking efforts, falls asleep between you. you sit there for a while, just existing together, and it feels like something is settling into place. not fixed and not perfect, but together. finally.

“we’re going to need to work on his escape artist tendencies,” angela says eventually.

“or we just accept that he’s smarter than both of us.”

“he’s a blind chihuahua who walks into walls.”

“a blind chihuahua who successfully orchestrated our reunion. give him some credit.”

it’s just you and angela and spork on a saturday afternoon, making a plan to look at apartments together, figuring out how to be in each other’s lives again.

it’s a start.

You're not sure this is a good idea.

Spork weighs maybe six pounds soaking wet, and that's being generous. He's ancient in dog years, with a graying muzzle and the kind of attitude that comes from surviving more than a decade on this planet. The Smosh Pride celebration is already in full swing when you arrive with Angela, and the venue is packed with people, music, and rainbow decorations hanging from every available surface.

"He's going to hate this," you say, adjusting the strap on Spork's baby sling.

Angela's already digging through her bag, pulling out a tiny scrap of fabric that you recognize as the rainbow bandana she bought on the way over. "He's going to love it. And even if he doesn't, we'll love it for him."

"Ang, come on. It's silly."

"It's Pride," she says, like that explains everything. Maybe it does. She's already tying the bandana around Spork's neck with practiced fingers, and you can't help but notice how the colors look ridiculously vibrant against his tan fur. He gives her a look that clearly says he's tolerating this under protest, but he doesn't squirm away.

You sigh. "If he gets stressed, we're leaving."

"Deal." Angela kisses your cheek and takes your hand. "Now let's go show off our son."

You've been together long enough that you don't bother correcting her when she calls Spork your son. That's what he is, really. You fostered him during COVID, when the world was falling apart, and neither of you could have imagined adding a permanent dog to your lives. But Spork had other plans. He burrowed into your routines, your inside jokes, your shared space on the couch. By the time the foster period ended, the adoption papers were a formality.

The first person to notice is Shayne.

"Oh my god," he says, crouching down immediately. "Angela, you didn't tell me you were bringing Spork!"

"Surprise!" Angela's grinning like she's just revealed a secret weapon. "We figured he deserved to celebrate too."

Shayne's already got his phone out, snapping photos of Spork's unimpressed face. "Dude, the bandana. I'm obsessed."

You're about to apologize for the silliness of it all when Courtney appears, followed closely by Damien. Within seconds, there's a small crowd forming, and Spork is suddenly the center of attention. You expect him to retreat into his sling, but instead he sits up straighter, like he knows he's being admired.

"We adopted him during COVID," Angela's saying to Courtney, who's making the kind of cooing noises usually reserved for human babies. "He was supposed to be a foster, but you know how that goes."

"Foster fail!" Courtney laughs. "The best kind of fail."

Damien's scratching behind Spork's ears, and the little traitor is leaning into it. "How old is he?"

"Old enough to know better," you say, and Angela elbows you gently.

"He's thirteen. Basically a senior citizen. But he's got more personality than most people I know."

Arasha joins the group, immediately pulling out her phone. "Can I post him? He's literally the cutest thing I've ever seen."

You look at Angela, who's practically glowing. "Sure," you say. "Just tag us so we can see it."

What you thought would be a quick hello turns into twenty minutes of Spork holding court. People keep stopping by to ask about him, comment on the bandana, and take photos. You're starting to understand that you've accidentally brought the star of the party.

"We should get a photo at the backdrop," Shayne suggests, gesturing toward the professional setup near the back of the venue. It's covered in rainbow streamers and pride flags, with perfect lighting that makes everyone look like they're glowing.

"Oh, we don't need to do that," you start, but Angela's already heading that direction with Spork in her arms.

The photographer is delighted. "A dog! Perfect! Let's get some shots."

You expect this to be quick. One photo, maybe two, and then you can fade back into the crowd. But Spork has other plans.

He poses. Actually poses. His head tilts at angles that should be impossible for a creature with such a tiny neck. The bandana catches the light just right, the rainbow colors practically glowing against his fur. His little paws are positioned perfectly, and his eyes have that soulful quality that makes him look wise beyond his years.

"Oh my god, he's a natural!" the photographer says, clicking away.

A crowd's gathering now. Cast members you recognize from Angela's stories, crew members you've met at other events, plus ones you've never seen before. They're all watching Spork work the camera like he's been doing this his whole life.

"Work it, Spork!" someone shouts, and everyone laughs.

Angela's beaming, holding Spork up for another shot. You catch her eye, and she mouths "I told you so" with such smugness that you can't help but laugh.

Courtney jumps into frame, then Damien, then Shayne. Soon, it's a full-group photo situation, with Spork right in the center, his tiny bandana the brightest spot in the frame. You're watching from the side, your phone full of photos and videos you'll definitely be looking at later.

"Get in here!" Angela calls to you, and before you can protest, you're being pulled into the frame. Spork's between you and Angela, and her hand finds yours behind his small body. The photographer counts down, and you smile, genuinely, because this is ridiculous and perfect and exactly the kind of thing you never knew you needed.

Later, when the excitement's died down, and Spork's energy is flagging, you find a quieter corner of the venue. Angela settles into a chair with Spork in her lap, and you pull up a seat beside her. The bandana's still in place, slightly askew now, and Spork's already snoring softly.

"He had a good time," Angela says quietly.

"He really did." You reach over and adjust the bandana, smoothing it down. "I can't believe he became the star of Pride."

Angela leans her head on your shoulder. "I can. He's perfect."

You watch the celebration continuing around you. Rainbow flags everywhere, people laughing, dancing, and being themselves without apology. Your hand finds Angela's, fingers intertwining in that automatic way that comes from years together.

"This is nice," you say.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Being here. With you. With our ridiculous dog in his rainbow bandana." You pause. "Being us, you know?"

Angela squeezes your hand. "That's what it's about, right? Just getting to be ourselves. Bringing our weird little family wherever we want."

Spork shifts in her lap, sighing contentedly. His bandana catches the light from the string lights overhead, and you're struck by how something so small, so silly, became the thing that made this day perfect. Not just the bandana, but everything it represents. The freedom to show up exactly as you are. To dress up your elderly Chihuahua in pride colors. To hold your partner's hand in a crowd. To build a family that looks nothing like what you expected and everything like what you needed.

"Love you," Angela says.

"Love you too." You lean over and kiss her temple. "Both of you."

Spork snores louder, and you both laugh. Somewhere in the venue, someone's probably still posting photos of him. Your ridiculous, perfect, accidentally famous dog. Your family.