hell is going on in front of me, no matter how much my throat is choking up right now.
I turn away and scrub my hands over my face, though. Just in case.
***
Ash starts making his way back over to me once he and the mutt—who actually has a much sweeter disposition than his appearance led me to believe—have calmed down enough for him to introduce us, and I can’t stop thinking about it. About how happy they both look.
Ash can’t stop grinning, and the dog is staring up at him like Ash is the true source of happiness, like he’s got sunbeams and unicorns coming out his butt. It’s . . . pretty cute, actually.
I guess this is what people mean when they say they’re
dog people.
I’d never seen the appeal before, not after my less than stellar past with my foster mom’s Pomeranian. But I have to admit, I’m starting to come around. Especially when Ash walks over to me, the dog plastered to his side, and introduces us with tears still shining in his eyes. He kind of sniffs and tries to scowl them away, like he’d gotten something in his eye, but we both know why they are there.
“So,” I say. “Not a wolf.”
Ash barks out a kind of strangled-sounding laugh, and scrubs his hands over his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Not so much.”
I let the smile I’ve been trying to tamp down start to sneak through, and plant my free hand on my hip. “You know, you still haven’t answered my were-you-serious-about-the-wolves question.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.” He reaches down to give the dog an affectionate slap on the side. “We’ve got this big guy to protect us.”
“And I’m guessing you know each other,” I say, smirking at him.
“Yeah . . . yeah. Star, this is Bruiser,” he says, and ruffles the mutt’s ears. The dog’s entire body shakes with joy. “He’s my dog.”
The night has cooled down enough that we can actually use the fire pit that we’d unearthed from the ton of junk in the backyard, and Ash tells me the whole story as we get a campfire going. The dog is his, he tells me, as we settle in and start building the sandwiches from the stuff we picked up from the grocery store. He’d left Bruiser with his parents when he’d been put away for the accident—the crash, he called it, because for some reason, he never seems to use the word
accident,
even though I know that’s what it was—and they hadn’t told him the dog had gotten out and gone missing until he’d gotten back to Avenue.
“I’ve been so fucking
angry,”
he says, pulling a sliver of roast beef out of his sandwich and tossing it to the dog, who snaps it out of the air like it is nothing. “It’s like . . . I
know
I’m a fuck-up, okay? But Bruiser? He didn’t do anything. And I just . . . ” He trails off, staring into the fire.
I turn my half-eaten sandwich over in my hands and pull my gaze away from him to stare down at it. “You just wanted him to be taken care of.”
Ash lets out a kind of half-sigh/half-snort, and I look up to find him looking at me. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Exactly.”
The silence stretches out like a ribbon between us, neither of us knowing what to say. Finally, I can’t take it any longer. I take another bite of my sandwich to buy myself a minute, but when I swallow I plaster a smile on my face and look over at him. “So, no offense or anything, but are you sure that he’s your dog? I mean . . . he looks pretty feral.”
“Pfft,
feral,” Ash mutters, but I can see the smile tugging on the side of his mouth. “I’ll show you feral. Watch this.” He reaches down and picks up the bag of potato chips he’d snagged from the grocery store at the last minute, claiming that after all our hard work and all that swimming, mere sandwiches wouldn’t be enough for his quote-unquote “manly hunger.” He rips the bag open, and the dog is instantly on high alert, pinning the bag with a stare that any body guard would be proud of.
“Sit,” Ash says, and before the word
I turn away and scrub my hands over my face, though. Just in case.
***
Ash starts making his way back over to me once he and the mutt—who actually has a much sweeter disposition than his appearance led me to believe—have calmed down enough for him to introduce us, and I can’t stop thinking about it. About how happy they both look.
Ash can’t stop grinning, and the dog is staring up at him like Ash is the true source of happiness, like he’s got sunbeams and unicorns coming out his butt. It’s . . . pretty cute, actually.
I guess this is what people mean when they say they’re
dog people.
I’d never seen the appeal before, not after my less than stellar past with my foster mom’s Pomeranian. But I have to admit, I’m starting to come around. Especially when Ash walks over to me, the dog plastered to his side, and introduces us with tears still shining in his eyes. He kind of sniffs and tries to scowl them away, like he’d gotten something in his eye, but we both know why they are there.
“So,” I say. “Not a wolf.”
Ash barks out a kind of strangled-sounding laugh, and scrubs his hands over his face. “Yeah,” he says. “Not so much.”
I let the smile I’ve been trying to tamp down start to sneak through, and plant my free hand on my hip. “You know, you still haven’t answered my were-you-serious-about-the-wolves question.”
“It doesn’t matter, anyway.” He reaches down to give the dog an affectionate slap on the side. “We’ve got this big guy to protect us.”
“And I’m guessing you know each other,” I say, smirking at him.
“Yeah . . . yeah. Star, this is Bruiser,” he says, and ruffles the mutt’s ears. The dog’s entire body shakes with joy. “He’s my dog.”
The night has cooled down enough that we can actually use the fire pit that we’d unearthed from the ton of junk in the backyard, and Ash tells me the whole story as we get a campfire going. The dog is his, he tells me, as we settle in and start building the sandwiches from the stuff we picked up from the grocery store. He’d left Bruiser with his parents when he’d been put away for the accident—the crash, he called it, because for some reason, he never seems to use the word
accident,
even though I know that’s what it was—and they hadn’t told him the dog had gotten out and gone missing until he’d gotten back to Avenue.
“I’ve been so fucking
angry,”
he says, pulling a sliver of roast beef out of his sandwich and tossing it to the dog, who snaps it out of the air like it is nothing. “It’s like . . . I
know
I’m a fuck-up, okay? But Bruiser? He didn’t do anything. And I just . . . ” He trails off, staring into the fire.
I turn my half-eaten sandwich over in my hands and pull my gaze away from him to stare down at it. “You just wanted him to be taken care of.”
Ash lets out a kind of half-sigh/half-snort, and I look up to find him looking at me. “Yeah,” he says, nodding. “Exactly.”
The silence stretches out like a ribbon between us, neither of us knowing what to say. Finally, I can’t take it any longer. I take another bite of my sandwich to buy myself a minute, but when I swallow I plaster a smile on my face and look over at him. “So, no offense or anything, but are you sure that he’s your dog? I mean . . . he looks pretty feral.”
“Pfft,
feral,” Ash mutters, but I can see the smile tugging on the side of his mouth. “I’ll show you feral. Watch this.” He reaches down and picks up the bag of potato chips he’d snagged from the grocery store at the last minute, claiming that after all our hard work and all that swimming, mere sandwiches wouldn’t be enough for his quote-unquote “manly hunger.” He rips the bag open, and the dog is instantly on high alert, pinning the bag with a stare that any body guard would be proud of.
“Sit,” Ash says, and before the word
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