Jem sniffed the air and gave me a glance that seemed to doubt my concerns about the wildlife. But then his ears pricked up and he took one step toward the dock ramp, a low growl rumbling out of him.
I really,reallydid not want to meet the reason for that growl, not even with the growler by my side and a bucket of apple cores and carrot tops in hand.
Jem growled once more—and then the squawking started. My dog advanced another step and I mentally kicked myself for not listening to Beckett about getting more lights installed out here. SPOC was already closed for the night. Tuesdays were often slower for them and only the masochists wanted to sit on the deck and slurp raw seafood in this weather.
Without warning,Jem wagged his tail and bounded toward the ramp. I realized then that the squawking was a painful rendition of an old Britney Spears song and the source of the noise was surprisingly human.
Jem stopped at the top of the ramp, tail flying and tongue lolling as he waited for me. “This is going to be great,” I muttered.
He barreled down the ramp ahead of me. I found him lapping the face of Parker Loew, who happened to be starfished on the dock.
It was worth noting that my primary reason for adopting Jem along with Scout was that he treated every rescue situation as a game. As far as I was concerned, if I was going to wipe out in the middle of a grocery store, I wanted a dog that enjoyed every damn minute of it.
This was also part of the behavioral issues that led to him failing his service dog tests. Fortunately for me, Jem’s behavioral issues had him pounding on Parker’s chest like the kid required resuscitation.
“Down, boy, down,” Parker yelped between full-face slobbers and paw chest compressions.
I snapped my fingers and Jem retreated to my side but he was thrilled with himself for coming to Parker’s aid. There was nothing better than a smiling dog.
“No one told me the party was down here,” I said.
Jem thumped his tail in time with the music playing on Parker’s phone. I spied a backpack and a half-empty bottle of tequila beside him.
“What do you think is worse?” he asked, the words slip’n’sliding together. “Not knowing what to do with your life or not knowing why you keep getting dumped? Or not knowing what happens when you die?”
“Oh, honey.” I set the bucket down and offered him a hand. He had the same long, angular body as Beckett at that age, all knobby knees and knife-sharp cheekbones. Parker had let his hair grow into a curly mop, which was nothing like Beckett’s preference for everything in an orderly fashion. “You can tell me all about it inside.”
With Parker sandwiched between me and Jem—who was excellent at keeping wobbly people upright, just ask me how I knew—we slowly made our way to the top of the ramp. He insisted on dumping the compost bucket for me and even made some Beckett-like grumbles when I tried to wave him off. It was funny how that gruff insistence was baked into the Loew boys.
Once the compost was sorted, Parker flung himself into a chair inside the café, his entire torso sprawled over the table. I set a big glass of cucumber water in front of him and busied myself with straightening up one more time. “What’s the story, friend? What were you trying to find at the bottom of that tequila bottle?”
“There are days when I feel like I know what I’m doing,” Parker started, his head in his hands, “and then there are days when the universe tells me I know fuck-all about anything.”
“Yes. I think that’s the trouble with being aware of yourself and the world around you. I don’t think it ever goes away,” I said. “What happened today?”
“I just—” He shook his head, rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “First things first, I got dumped, which was fantastic. Then I had to pick classes for next year, and everyone acts like I’m supposed to know what I want and where I’m going in life. Like, how the hell should I know, at seventeen years old, whether I want to take calculus, which would open me up to take an assload of classes in college, or statistics, which doesn’t do shit for college but actually sounds useful? And how should I know if I want to take four years of a foreign language? I don’t know where I’m going or what I’m doing. I can’t plan around the grab bag of requirements at all these different colleges. Fuck, I don’t even know if I want to go to college.”
He chugged half of the water and set it down with a thud loud enough to draw the attention of both dogs away from the broken peanut butter and jelly cookies I was feeding them from today’s discards.
“You know who does want me to go to college?” he asked, stabbing a finger in my direction. “Fuckin’ Beck.”
I loved that. I wanted to change his contact in my phone to “Fuckin’ Beck” because it was so accurate.
“He hasconsultantsandcoaches, and this whole big thing about making lists and visiting schools. This morning he hands me a printed-out page from aspreadsheetand tells me he has friends who are alumni at all these universities. He can schedule calls with them so I can ask questions about the schools.” Parker tried to slap the tabletop but his hand went wide and he ended up connecting with his thigh. It sounded like it hurt. “Schedule calls. What would I even ask these people? ‘Hey man, what’s the food situation there?’ What did I do to give him the impression I wanted conference calls in my life?”
“It’s his love language,” I said. “He means well.”
“He means to give me a mental breakdown.” He dropped his head into his hands again.
I nodded. I understood the tension of Beckett wanting to solve every problem he encountered, and everyone else’s desire to exist without that kind of interference. Or conference calls. “He tends to give and help to the max, and ask questions later. If at all.”
“You’re right. That’s the shitty part. Not thatyou’reright but that the explanation is obvious.” Parker drained the last of the water and burped loudly. Scout put her head in his lap. “Sorry for dropping all of my problems on you like that. I should’ve asked if you were up for it first.”
I wiped down the counter and started reorganizing the Sharpie jar. “I would’ve said so if I wasn’t.”
Parker nodded and spent a minute scratching Scout’s head. “Is there any way you could drop me off? Or drop me in the general vicinity of my house? The cops like to stop kids who are out late at night, and let’s just say”—he cut the kind of nervous look at his backpack that yelledI’ve got some real shit in here—“we have enough legal trouble in my family right now.”
I swallowed a laugh. This kid was too much. “It’s on my way.”
