With the sun down, it’s cold. Like, breathe in and your nose hairs stick together cold. So Jitter and I cut the walk short.
We’re walking past the townhouse next to mine which currently houses someone I’d very much like to quit thinking about when the door opens, and there he is.
Six feet, four inches of lean bulk encased in blue jeans and boots under a thick wool coat—clean now, courtesy of my dry cleaning gift card, I hear—a gray wool scarf, and a black beanie. His beard is getting impossibly thicker, and he’s tugging on a black glove as he exits his townhouse, but he suddenly pauses and grips the doorframe.
Jitter barks and lunges for him.
I grab the leash tight. “Sit, Jitter,” I order, but the dog won’t listen.
He pulls harder to get to Grey.
The odd part, though?
Grey doesn’t react to us at all.
He stands there, gripping the doorframe, his eyes distant, breathing deeply like he’s in a trance, lit only by the porch light.
Jitter drags me all the way over to him, and no amount of bracing myself or tugging back works to stop my dog.
He’sdetermined.
Worse, he’s whining.
“Jitter,” I repeat.
He whines louder and nudges the boss-man’s free hand, which is curled into a fist.
“Grey?” I say hesitantly.
He sucks in one more breath and blows it out while Jitter lies down at his feet. “What?” he says.
“Are you all right?”
“Fine.”
“You don’tlookfine.”
“I’mfine.”
He doesn’t sound fine either.
Not even close.
My pulse kicks into high gear.
Something’s wrong.
He blinks twice, looks at me under the yellow glow of the porch light, goes ruddy in the cheeks, and turns like he’s planning on barricading himself inside and canceling the rest of his plans for the day.
Unfortunately for him, Jitter’s a big dog and still completely in the way, so Grey catches himself again in the doorway.
“Jitter likes you,” I say while I tug on the leash.
“Poor judge of character,” Grey mutters.
Oh, yes.
Something isverywrong.
