Page 47 of The Attack Zone

“It’s just something I do,” he says. “I’d rather not have people know. If that’s okay.”

I reach for his hand that isn’t giving Bella pets and give it a small squeeze. “Of course it’s okay.”

“Well, I, for one, am starving,” he says as he starts to stand up.

“What about Bella?” I ask.

“What about her?” he says, brushing some fur off of his pants.

“We can’t just leave her here,” I find myself saying.

He laughs and offers me his hand to help me stand up. “It’s a no-kill shelter,” he says. “She’ll be fine.”

“But ...” But what? It’s not like I’ve ever wanted a dog before. And I don’t want one now. “What if no one wants her since she’s a pit bull?”

“What are you proposing?” he asks.

“Nothing,” I say. “Just ... maybe we should come check on her soon.”

“We?” he asks.

“If that’s okay?” I say, suddenly very self-conscious.

“Of course it’s okay.” He takes my hand in his and guides us out the door. “Now, let’s get some lunch, love.”

We park at Mitch’s condo and walk to a small cafe down the block. Once we both have our salads, I decide to ask Mitch the question that’s been on the tip of my tongue since we left the shelter.

“Can I ask you something?” I ask.

Mitch looks up at me with a smile that could level an entire mountain. “Of course,” he says.

“Why don’t you have a dog?” I ask. His face falls and I immediately regret the question. “It’s just ... you clearly love them,” I continue despite myself. “Is it your game schedule or something?”

“No. It’s not that,” he says. “Well, not just that.”

“Sorry,” I say after a long moment of silence. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“No, no,” he says. “It’s not you. I just ...” He lets out a short sigh and pokes at his salad with his fork. “There’s something I should probably tell you.”

Well, that sounded ominous.

“What is it?” I ask. He doesn’t say anything right away. Now he’s swirling his water in his hand, apparently mesmerized by the way the water is moving in the glass. “You can tell me, Mitch.”

He looks up at me, eyes soft and uncertain. “I have bipolar disorder,” he says.

Oh.

“Oh,” I say.

That is ... not what I was expecting.

“I don’t tell most people about it,” he says. “But my sleep schedule has gotten a bit messed up lately and it’s starting to have an effect.”

I can tell he doesn’t want to talk about this. I can tell he’s embarrassed, even if he shouldn’t be. I also feel horrible that I might have triggered something for him.

“I had no idea,” I say. “I’m sorry. I wouldn’t have made you stay up so late if I’d known.”

“It isn’t your fault, love,” he says. “I know what I need to stay healthy and I’m the one who ignored it. But anyway, that’s why I don’t have a dog.”