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A spark ignites in my chest. This is the Rhys from the cat rescue. The Rhys who devised a strategy just like that. “Yes?”
“You stay in the main bedroom,” Rhys says, like he’d never consider me leaving that room. “Hollis can stay where he is, since shotgun or whatever. Gavin will sleep upstairs. And I’ll stay on the couch.”
I want to protest since no one likes sleeping on couches.
But Rhys offers a cheeky smile and brooks no argument when he says, “I can sleep anywhere. I’m flexible like that.” Emphasis on flexible. Like he’s leaning into his yoga practice. He tips his forehead to Hollis and Gavin. “Those guys? They’re more set in their ways.”
“You’re a gentleman and a trooper,” I say, amused and grateful, too, for the way he’s sorted this out.
“I’ll go to the store,” Gavin says, all business.
Hollis clears his throat. “I’ll help with dinner as well.” He sounds a little put in his place.
“And I’ll get the champagne,” Rhys adds.
Just like that we have a plan for tonight.
But it sounds like a date.
I leave with my girl on her leash, hustling toward town, texting my brother about the app and trying desperately to focus on business when my phone pings with a message that makes me want to throw it in the river.
19
THE FINE PRINT
Briar
My heart rate quickens as I open the email. It’s from my ex’s website announcing a contest they’re running.
I thought I’d unsubscribed to Steven’s A Man’s Man emails. But, shockingly, in the midst of getting kicked out of my home while I wasn’t looking, I forgot that little detail. As I pass a pink house with an antique weather vane on the roof, I brace myself. Sneakers smacking the sidewalk, I read through the details of the contest. It’s a slap in the face.
I squeeze my phone like I can shake the life out of him through this mobile device. I clench my jaw, breathe hard through my nostrils. He’s such a thief. The cat, my sexual dignity, and now my ideas.
This contest he’s launching was my idea.
My chest burns from the kindling he constantly throws on the ex fire, but I have to let my anger go. I have to snuff these flames. I need to manifest mindfulness, positivity, and calm.
I try some affirmations the rest of the way to the town square. I am leading the life I want.
As I pass a bookshop with a display of chilling thrillers, Donut looks up with her trusting brown eyes. She tilts her head, as if asking what’s going on with me and my funk.
My heart squeezes with affection for my pup. She was abandoned once. That’s why she wound up at Little Friends and with me. I know the feeling of someone leaving all too well. I’ll never do that to her.
After my mom’s two visits, she sent me birthday letters, and Christmas cards, and pointless gifts, like paintings she’d made of places she’d visited, like I wanted them. I almost wish I never heard from her again.
I tell my dog what’s got me in a funk. “It’s an email from Steven’s site and yes, you always knew best about him, you brilliant doggess,” I say to Donut, since maybe voicing that will help me let go of my anger some more.
She trots along, tail wagging. A saucy little thing who never liked the jerk. Yep. I’ll keep putting Steven behind me. Like Donut’s done.
The streets around us bustle with the hum of a fair just beginning. While the Sunburst Summit Festival features music, wine, and outdoor activities, there are crafts and street food everywhere too. In the town square, the air is filled with the savory aroma of grilled veggies, small-batch waffles, and homemade crepes. Booths are peddling tasty treats while vendors sell handmade crafts, vintage jewelry, and chai lattes that make me thirsty.
The sound of laughter and music floats on the breeze as families and friends gather around a large free-standing stage where two women in bohemian skirts tune their guitars—a duo ready to usher in an afternoon of sunshine, wine, and song. I pass them then set up in a gazebo past the town square, laying down my mat, then setting another one next to it. “Lie down, girl,” I tell Donut.
With a beleaguered sigh—oh, the frustration of a freeloading dog who must behave during class—she complies. “Good girl,” I say as she shifts into her favorite pose—dog ball.
I do a few sun salutations to calm my frayed nerves, and they work. They almost always work. Devoting energy to my body helps settle my overactive mind.
Except, well, when I’m in bed.
