We were just kids when I told him to leave. I knew what that full-ride scholarship meant for him, and I had one of my own. His to Notre Dame. Mine to the University of Texas. We were both given opportunities that we could never get back. And we were eighteen. The years felt forever then, as if we had a constant supply.
I remember the first time I saw him when he visited his grandpa for Christmas. I wasn’t sure what it would be like—seeing him when he wasn’t mine. I stood frozen on the sidewalk.
He hadn’t changed much yet. It had only been six months. He wore his hair a little longer. I’d chopped my long dark hair to my shoulders.
The moment he saw me, his grin spread out wide and warm. He walked toward me confidently, a different kind of steadiness in his stride. Immediately, his fingers were combing through my hair. “I like it.”
“Hello to you, too,” I replied, slightly breathless, my skin tingling with familiarity and the tension of time passing.
“How are you?” he asked, his blue eyes bright.
“Fantastic,” I answered, and it was the truth. I loved my college classes. I was taking twenty-four hours, which was cautioned against by my advisor for my first semester, but I wanted to soak in all the things I could, read all the things I could. “You?”
“Focused on my game,” he answered.
“As you should be.” I smiled at him, knowing there was something special about Milo Carter. Knowing he wasn’t just a football player, but someone who intimately knew the game like I knew my books.
My belief in him wasn’t misplaced.
It was a simple run-in, and yet it didn’t feel so simple for me. I longed for him to lean in and kiss me, to make the hundreds of miles that separated us nonexistent. But I didn’t feel like life was that simple, and he didn’t lean in.
He went back to Indiana and only came back for one other Christmas before his life began to grow roots elsewhere. I went back to the University of Texas until sudden family responsibility pulled me back to Dusty Hollow, and I’ve never left.
I meant to. It wasn’t meant to be long-term. Now I have a mortgage and a 401(k).
The smallest puppy in the litter, a little guy with curly white hair and dark eyes, lets out a shrill bark.
I toss my book to the side, walk over to the pen I’ve set up inmy living room, and pick him up. He nibbles at my arm with his tiny sharp teeth.
“Ouch!” I yelp before settling back down on the couch, trying to wrestle the fluff ball into submission. “It’s bad manners to bite, sir.”
His eyes seem to droop in an apologetic way. My shoulders soften. “I’m sorry.”
Then he sinks his teeth into my arm again, drawing blood.
“Hey! My arm is not a chew toy,” I scold, gently thumping him on his nose.
He whines as I lift him up so I can stare directly in his eyes as he hangs in the air where he can’t use his teeth as weapons. He looks so small and innocent, but puppy-dog eyes do not work on me.
Well, actually, they do. Puppy-dog eyes are exactly what convinced me to work a booth last summer at Firefly Farms during their huge community event. It was luau themed, and I spent six straight hours in a synthetic grass skirt in August heat, smiling through sweat and chafing while serving tropical drinks from real pineapple cups.
The puppy whines again, bringing me back to reality.
“Listen. This was not how I planned my Friday night, either. Both of us aren’t exactly where we want to be. Me in Dusty Hollow. You in my living room. But it’s where life has led us, sir.”
He blinks at me.
“Now, we need to set a few ground rules, such as?—”
There’s a gentle knock at my front door.
I pull the puppy back into my chest, looking down at him. “Best behavior.”
I walk to the front door, swinging it wide open before even thinking to see who it is, and—“Milo,” I say a little too breathlessly.
In the dim light of my front porch, he looks softer, his edges all smoothed from the glow. “Hi, Sadie and . . . who’s this?”
He takes the small puppy from my arms without even asking,rubbing his nose against his fluff, and I’m about to warn him that he bites when the puppy licks him gently instead.
