“What are you doing here?”
I watched his face cycle through a series of emotions, but before he could answer, his dog hunched over and made a deposit just a few feet away from us, buying his person time in the form of three perfectly shaped logs.
The dull pain seeping through my limbs was completely at odds with my reflexive reaction to seeing Andrew. Heartbeatspeeding to triple time, the urge to stand a little taller, heat rushing to my face that I hoped he couldn’t see in the dim light. It was like every part of me automatically recalibrated to trying to look cute despite my actual feelings for him. I hated my body for betraying me.
Andrew slapped his jacket pockets. “Damn it, I don’t have a bag on me. Do you...”
“Does the woman who owns a dog training school happen to have an extra poop bag on her?” I winced as my palm rubbed against my back pocket, then handed him the eco-friendly bag. It was just like Andrew to let his dog run wildandforget to carry one of the core components of responsible pet parenthood.
I rose to my feet slowly while he picked up the mess.
“That’s some quality poop. Nice work,” Andrew said to his dog. I saw him flash a thumbs-up and the dog wiggled harder, then jumped up and rebounded off his chest. He barely budged, but then again, it wasn’t like a sixty-five-pound dog could have much of an impact on someone as massive as Andrew.
He was big when we were in college, but the Andrew staring me down in my parking lot was certifiablygigantic. It seemed like he’d also gained a few inches of height in addition to the muscles he’d packed on, as if his entire body had kept growing well past puberty into this man-shaped mountain. His sandstone Carhartt jacket was unzipped, exposing a simple gray T-shirt that fit like he’d never eaten a carb. It was hard not to gawk at him, despite the fact that when I caught him in profile I noticed a tiny man-bun at the crown of his head.
Howdid he manage to make it look good?
My best friend, Samantha, had told me during one of ourgossip sessions that he’d moved on from his job as assistant strength coach with the Washington Commanders, but I never asked for follow-up details. There was no reason for me to keep tabs on Andrew Gibson and I was sure he felt the same about me.
“You didn’t tell me why you’re here,” I said.
Andrew tied the poop bag in a tidy knot and launched it in the general direction of the dumpster. I let out an agitated sigh when I heard it hit the ground.
“I hope you’re going to put that where it belongs,” I said, trying to keep the schoolmarm out of my voice.
A smile played around the corners of his mouth and it was then I realized that he had the beginnings of a beard, a shadow that underscored the cut of his jawline. “Well, you haven’t changed a bit.”
That grin. I knew what it could do.
“Why are you here?” I punched each word to make it clear that I wasn’t going to let him dodge my question again.
“Yeah, sorry, I’ve been meaning to stop over. We’re, uh, we’re gonna be neighbors, I guess.” He pointed at the modest industrial building behind us. “I just signed the lease today.”
No.
Impossible. The taut muscles along the back of my neck cranked tighter at the thought of being forced to deal with him every day. The last tenant in the space had been a T-shirt printing business that kept to themselves and occasionally gave me misprints, like the shirt they did for a local brewery that was supposed to say “Try an ale” but accidentally dropped the “e.”
“Doingwhat?”
“I’m finally opening my private gym.”
He cracked his knuckles and stared at me as his dog parkoured off of him again.
I wasn’t surprised that Andrew was making his dream a reality. He’d always been a doer. Not in the way I was, of course. It wasn’t like his major in exercise science was tough, which left him plenty of time to focus on his extracurricular activities. There’d always been something about him that made people want to fall in line behind him. Whether it was rallying the crowd for the next stop of a pub crawl or gathering enough signatures to host a Squats for Tots fundraiser in front of the library, Andrew Gibson got shit done.
“Congrats.” The one-word response to what was a huge achievement would have to do. It was all I could muster up since I was still reeling about the fact that he wasright there.
“Thanks.” He reached down to pet his dog. “And sorry about this guy. He’s still pretty wild. I’ve only had him a few weeks and I just found out he’s deaf.”
Of course. Deafness is common in white boxers. How did I miss that?
“He’s cute. What’s his name?”
“Dude.”
“You named your dogDude?”
Andrew nodded, looking pleased with himself. “Yeah, before I realized he was deaf I thought it would be funny to yell ‘Hey, Dude!’ when I wanted him to come. It was either that or Mister.”
