Another message appears right after.
April:
I have to go, girl, I’m here, and I’m two minutes late.I’ll message you later.
I send a thumbs up and lock the phone again, slipping it back into my pocket as the dogs run circles through the yard.
The afternoon sun feels warm against my shoulders, and somewhere across the fence, I hear Aiden moving crates, the steady rhythm of things getting done.
“Come on, kids.” I clap my hands lightly. “Let’s go help Aiden.”
Both dogs trot toward me immediately, tails wagging as I open the door and let them back inside. We cross through the house together, nails clicking across the floor. I pause briefly in frontof the hallway mirror, pulling my hat off and twisting my hair up into a messy bun. Good enough.
I grab my keys, head back out, and lock the door behind me. The dogs take off toward Aiden’s place, already knowing where we’re going.
When I turn toward his house, the first thing I see is a large black dog coming straight for me — long legs, shiny coat, ears flopping with every step. He slows as he reaches me, stopping politely as if he’s waiting for permission.
“You must be Houston.” Smiling, I crouch slightly and reach for him.
He leans his head into my palm right away, warm and heavy, looking at me with calm, knowing eyes.
“Oh, you are special, aren’t you?”
His tongue hangs out to the side, making me giggle.
The second thing I notice is Aiden.
He’s standing in the bed of his truck, jeans low on his hips, backwards hat still on — shirtless, back turned toward me. Sunlight catches along the broad line of his shoulders, sweat glinting across his skin as he lifts another crate.
Heat creeps up my neck before I force my gaze away.
A tall, fit man steps out of the garage wearing a Houston Astros T-shirt and basketball shorts. His dirty blonde hair is pulled into a neat man bun. He moves easily toward the truck, taking a crate from Aiden and carrying it back into the garage.
All three dogs start circling each other, tails wagging wildly.
Aiden looks over his shoulder, spots me, and waves.
“May, come meet Nathan.”
I walk closer, trying very hard to look normal.
“Nathan, this is May. May, this is Nathan. He’s our neighbor, he lives two houses down.”
“Hello,” Nathan says with an easy nod.
“Hi. Nice to meet you.”
He smiles briefly, already grabbing another crate and carrying it into the garage, where I can see stacks forming neatly against the wall.
“Did you meet Houston?” Aiden asks.
“Yeah.” I glance toward the dogs again. “He’s beautiful. What is he?”
Nathan answers as he comes back out. “According to the DNA test, seventy-five percent vizsla, twenty percent German shepherd, five percent rottweiler.”
“He looks like a vizsla.”
“And sheds like a German shepherd,” Nathan adds.
