“You’re telling me your highly trained, fire-department-certified rescue dog just stole food off my plate?”
“I’m telling you my dog knows an easy mark when he sees one.” Dean takes a pointed bite of his burger. “You were distracted. He exploited the weakness. It’s tactical.”
Rex turns his head toward me. I swear he’s smirking.
“This is why Jo keeps giving him treats,” I mutter. “He’s got con artist eyes.”
“Don’t let him hear you say that. It’ll go to his head.”
I guard my remaining fries with renewed vigilance. Rex watches me with patient, calculating eyes—the look of a predator who knows his prey will eventually let their guard down.
“So,” Dean says, and something in his tone makes me look up. “Delilah.”
“Whatabout her?”
“You going to keep avoiding her, or are you going to actually do something?”
“I wasn’t—” I stop. Because yes, I was. “Scott asked me the same thing.”
“Scott’s smarter than he looks.” Dean drains his tea. “Look, I’m not going to give you a speech about feelings. That’s not my thing.”
“I’m aware.”
“But she’s different now. Steadier. Whatever happened before—” He shrugs. “People change. Sometimes they come back for a reason.”
“When did you become an optimist?”
“I’m not. I’m a realist.” He stands, fishing out his wallet. “I’m also someone who spent too many years keeping people at arm’s length because it felt safer. It wasn’t.” He drops cash on the table. “Come on, Rex. Let’s go before you steal anything else.”
Rex rises with the fluid grace of an athlete, all evidence of his criminal activity hidden behind those soulful brown eyes.
“See you at the house later,” Dean says. “Jo’s making dinner. You’re invited. And before you ask—no, Delilah won’t be there. This time.”
He leaves, Rex trotting perfectly at his heel, and I’m left with an empty plate and a lot to think about.
I signal Dylan for the check.
Time to go write something real.
Three hours later,I have a verse and the start of something that might be a chorus.
It’s not good. Scott was right about that part. The words are clunky and raw. There’s a line about the smell of her shampoo that’s genuinely embarrassing.
But it’s real.
For the first time in months, I’m not writing around my feelings. I’m writing through them. Every messy, complicated, terrifying one.
She crashed into me like she always does— Coffee on my shirt, chaos in her eyes, An apology that sounded like a question, A question I’ve been afraid to ask for ten years.
I cross out the last line. Try again.
A question neither of us knows how to answer.
Better. Still not good. But better.
I set down my pen and look out the window. The ocean is doing its thing—waves rolling in, pulling back, rolling in again. Relentless. Patient.
She left me twice. She might leave again. Opening up to her might be the stupidest thing I’ve ever done.
