Page 61 of Summer Love

Except Flip doesn’t follow anyone. He follows me, and tolerates everybody else. Or that’s what I thought.

I stay in the doorway. Summer hasn’t heard me. She’s talking to the dog.

“You know you picked the wrong side, right?”

Flip’s tail speeds up.

“Your owner’s impossible. Really.”

Flip cocks his head. Traitor.

Summer dips the brush in the can. She works the corners in slow, careful strokes. She’s not bad. She paints the way she does everything else—methodically.

“You know what’s in this house? Mice. I heard them this morning.”

Flip’s ears perk up. Summer doesn’t look at him. She keeps painting.

“If you were a cat, you’d be really useful. But no. You’re just a big slobbery teddy bear.”

Flip licks her free hand. The brush skids across the wall. Summer snorts a laugh.

That laugh… The same one from when she was seventeen and something caught her off guard.

Before.

“Fine… I love you anyway, you know?”

She pats his head. Flip leans in, shoves his muzzle into her palm, asking for more.

“I’m warning you, if you stick around, I’m gonna end up keeping you.”

Like hell.

I clear my throat. Summer spins around, brush in the air, eyes wide. She lifts her chin, presses her lips together, and the mask comes back up.

“I brought the bike back,” I say. “Give me my dog.”

She shrugs.

“He’s a big boy. He does what he wants.”

“Flip!”

The dog looks at me, looks at Summer, then back at me. He doesn’t move. His tail stops wagging; his ears drop.

“Flip. Let’s go.”

Nothing.

I sigh. I walk into the living room, step over a drop cloth, and crouch in front of him.

“Come on, big guy. You coming?”

Flip licks my chin, but he still doesn’t move.

I slide my arms under his belly and lift him—sixty-five pounds of boneless dog letting himself be carried like a sack. My arms hold. My thigh doesn’t. The pain starts at the scar and radiates through the whole muscle. I take three steps… and I limp.

The brush goes still against the wall. Summer meets my eyes, then her gaze drops to my thigh. A crease forms between her brows. She doesn’t ask.