Ford: He can jog?
Skylar: Is this a reference to his short legs? Your dog has short legs too.
Ford: Fair point. But she also doesn’t jog.
I’m tapping out a reply when I stop, wondering why he wrote. There’s nothing practical in his note. It’s…a remark. Athrowaway comment. Something fun. My lips curve into a grin as I dictate a response.
Skylar: Why don’t you want to get on his bad side?
Ford: I looked him up. His commentary is withering.
That’s too delightful. Opening the oven, I picture Ford checking out Simon’s social. I imagine the smirk on his face. The roll of his eyes. The temptation to leave a like or a heart. It’s a nice image.
Skylar: Scathing reality judges have nothing on Simon.
Ford: Truer words.
I close the oven and set the timer. The phone goes quiet, and something soft settles into my chest—the awareness that Ford had written simply to compliment…my dog. And to let on that he’d looked him up.
I peer out the back window, but there’s only one light on in his home. Same as earlier. I check the hockey schedule. Ah, he’s in Los Angeles. They played this afternoon—I hop over to the sports news—and won. I stay on the site to watch a few highlights. Then a few more.
Skylar: I’m making cauliflower mac and cheese. I bet it’s not on your meal plan, but I can leave some on the front porch for you.
Ford: Sounds delicious. I’m landing soon. Will be home in a little while.
A little later, I put the food in a casserole dish and then write a note from Simon on his branded stationery. The one where he’s lounging on his side, giving, naturally, the side-eye.
You’re lucky. She serves me the same dry brown rocks every night.
As I head to the door, I feel a little fizzy knowing Ford wrote to me from the plane. Though I absolutely should not be feeling anything for my neighbor. Correction: My brother’s neighbor.
But that’s okay—nothing will come of this.
No matter how much I hope Ford enjoys the mac and cheese.
I trot up to the porch and set it down on the doormat…which has an illustrated dog and saysWipe Your Paws. There’s just something about a man who loves dogs.
I turn around to head back to my house when I stop in my tracks. “Oh.” My pulse speeds up. My chest…tingles.
Ford heads up the path, wearing a suit, walking his dog…
And looking straight at me, like I’m a good surprise.
12
STARRY NIGHT SNACK
FORD
In sports, timing is everything. The way you line up a shot, how fast you swing the stick, how long you’re in the penalty box—in my case, hardly ever. I have the team’s lowest PIM (penalty minutes) thanks to discipline.
I’ve played sports long enough to know that timing matters in life too.
Like the day a couple of years ago when I came home early from practice and found my ex’s laptop open, a chat with the private chef still glowing on the screen. That was seriously good timing. Imagine how long the affair might have gone on otherwise.
As I walk across the stone path toward my house, Zamboni trotting faithfully beside me, I think about timing again. Because Skylar on my porch late at night feels like a shot lining up just right.
She could have dropped the mac and cheese off anytime. But she’s here now. And right away, I know—I don’t want her to go home yet.
