“Okay,” she says. “Maybe a little.”
I sit on the porch step. She stands and brushes her hands on her jeans. “Hold on.”
She goes inside. Rowdy watches the door. I watch Rowdy.
She comes back out holding a large, square container with a flip top and a handwritten label that says "ROWDY" in thick black marker. She opens it, pulls out a treat, and offers it to Rowdy on a flat palm.
He takes it with enormous delicacy.
I stare at the container. “Falon.”
“What?”
“You already had that.”
“I have a barn full of animals. And, until last night, I had four dogs here. I keep treats.”
“That says Rowdy. Specifically. In your handwriting.”
She closes the lid with a decisive click. “It’s a general-purpose container.”
“It literally says?—”
“Bo.”
I press my mouth together. She is fighting a smile and losing a little.
“When did you write that?” I ask.
“I don’t remember.”
“Before or after I moved in?”
“I genuinely cannot recall.”
I look at her. She looks at me. Rowdy lays down in the sun like he is above the whole conversation.
“You’re something else,” I tell her.
The smile breaks through then, quick and bright. She sits down on the step beside me, close enough that our arms touch and our fingers brush. She sets the container down and watches Rowdy.
“He’s good,” she says.
“Yeah.” I watch him too. “Sam said he’ll learn to read me and the room.”
“He already does.” She tilts her head, studying him. “He knew to be gentle when he came to me.”
I think about that.
“You’re good with him,” I say.
“I’m good with most animals.” She glances at me. “Some take longer.”
I huff. “Am I an animal?”
She is smiling at Rowdy, but when she turns back toward the yard, something crosses her face. There and gone, fast enough that I almost miss it. Another thing to file away. Today isn't the day to pull at threads. Today is Rowdy’s Day, and the afternoon is good, and I am not going to borrow trouble from a look I might have imagined.
“You’re worth the patience.” She smiles, and she means it, but there is that look again. Humm.
