“Want to tell me why you’re here?” I ask in a hushed voice veiled under the crowd’s murmur.
His hand envelops mine, and for a beat, no one else exists.
Just us.
“Thisdojangor this city?” he asks softly, pulling me closer so I’m hovering over him. “Either way, it’s to chase you.”
four
patton
Treat-me-so-good, Gooseberry
Igroan, stuffing my pillow under my chest and turning to relieve the pressure off my back. There isn’t a visible bruise there, but damn, she got me good.
The thought makes me smile.
Shemakes me smile.
She kicked my ass last night but I suppose that’s nothing new. Between the two of us, she was always better—at landing a kick, a punchline, or an exit.
And damn if she isn’t still the most magnificent thing to step on a mat, all lethal grace and controlled power. Just the way she was when we were teens, taking after-school taekwondo classes at the samedojang. I loved those hours on the mat, especially because they meant I could spend more time with the girl from school who was slowly becoming more than my best friend, but theater was always my true calling.
From as far back as I can remember, I always wanted to be an actor. And while the path was often unclear and rocky, I had one constant—a girl who always believed in me, even when I didn’t believe in myself. Whether it was our school’s small stage or theaters all across the world, she was my biggest fan.
Until I lost her somewhere along the way.
The memory of last night seeps back in—her sharp kick, the rage burning in her eyes, and the way she shivered when I told her I was here for her—and I can’t help the grin that spreads across my face.
I tested that tightly-held control of hers, and I have neither a regret nor an apology to offer for it. Not for last night, at least.
Because my regrets and apologies span years.
Just as the scent of fresh paint, new sheets, and cardboard register in my senses, reminding me I spent the night in my new house, a wet, slobbery tongue drags across the bottom of my foot.
Perfect.
Usually I have the wherewithal, even in my sleep, to keep my feet under the blankets for this very reason, but clearly, that final kick last night knocked that out-of-whack, too, besides just my back.
“Morning, buddy,” I mumble, hearing his nails tap across the hardwood as he lumbers around my bed to give me one of his signature disappointed and judgmental stares. “Give me five more minutes okay?”
Bob, all one-hundred and twenty healthy pounds of him, is somehow the oldest-looking two-year-old bloodhound in existence.
With the droopy jowls of a grumpy old man nodding off on his porch rocker, eye bags that could double as suitcases, and enough sagging skin to suggest he’s seen some shit in his day, Bob looks like he’s one dog treat away from retirement.
But as tired and despondent as his eyes might look, they’re just a front. Because under that droopy facade is the soul of a Tasmanian Devil with a penchant for theatrics.
For example, he just collapsed on the floor, as if he’s been shot, with the most outrageous sigh ever heard. As if my asking forfive extra minuteswas akin to telling him he’ll be goinghungry for a week, orGod forbid, that he’ll never have another Starbucks pup-cup.
The flowery bra he stole out of a box in my closet—one of the only things my ex-wife accidentally left behind—lies on the floor next to him like a trophy from a scandalous night. I swear, he walks around with it clasped in his mouth all day, like he’s waiting to clasp it on in case he’s asked to walk aVictoria’s Secretrunway. And no matter how many times I’ve tried to sneak it away from him, he’s found it, giving me an “I’m on to you” stare, reminiscent of Robert De Niro fromMeet The Parents, and taken it back.
He stares back at me when I open one eye to look at him.Dammit! I should have pretended to have gone back to sleep!
He sighs again, a flutter catching his jowls.
Jesus. This dog.
“Fine,” I groan, flinging my blanket off and wincing when my back protests.
