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I leash him up and walk to the beach, sitting directly on the sand. The waves crashing in and being sucked back out sets the pace, and my breathing slows and deepens to keep pace. I empty my day out in those exhales and leave the horrible meeting where it belongs.
I close my eyes, lean back onto my palms, and focus on feeling the granules as they massage my legs. I flex and contract my muscles, tightening each in turn, forcing the muscle to do its job before releasing it and moving to the next. I’ve worked all the way from my hips to my toes when Kyle alerts me of someone coming.
He's an easy dog, and passersby never seem to trigger him, but when it’s the two of us out some place, he tends to assume the role of protector. He doesn’t have a mean bone in his body, though. I can only assume he would pounce and lick someone should they attack.
Feet come into view beside me. Without a word, the body they’re connected to folds to sit beside me and leans back, fingers digging into the sand, mimicking my pose.
I can feel Layton’s gaze on me for a moment before he stares out at the ocean.
Kyle circles him, sniffing and snuffling as if he’s trying to taste the air around us. When Layton extends a hand, Kyle drops his nose and takes all the love and attention he can receive.
“Who is this?” Layton asks, addressing my dog as if he isn’t two hours away from his house.
As if he were invited to join us.
“Kyle, say hello to Mr. Ranger.”
“Mr. Ranger, huh?”
“Yep.”
“Mr. Ranger is my dad.”
“That’s usually how it works.”
“Yup.” He pops the “p” at the end of the word and continues rubbing Kyle, who slides into his down position, stretching his chin to the sky. “This is a beautiful dog you have here. Sweet one, too.”
“Kyle’s perfect, actually.”
Layton hums.
I don’t know if he’s thinking or agreeing, so I go on, “He can do no wrong.”
“Lucky Kyle,” Layton says to my dog, who rolls to his back, exposing his chest and neck, openly submitting to this complete stranger. “How did you win her trust, Kyle? Mr. Ranger”—he emphasizes the words while passing a sly look back to me—“apparently can do no right.”
“Kyle, tell Mr. Ranger he was crystal clear that he and I are, at best, colleagues, and, at worst, acquaintances. He should know I’m showing him the respect I would show any colleague who doesn’t want to be associated with me.” My eyes never leave the waves.
His hand snakes through the sand until his pinky touches mine, dancing along the top of the flesh there. “Kyle is very trusting. Is this normal?”
I shake my head. “No. He’s not standoffish, but this is new.”
“Are you as trusting?” His pinky hooks around mine.
I shake my head again. No need for words this time.
Speaking to the waves, Layton asks, “Do you know how much I make?”
I yank my hand back and stand, flinging sand everywhere and whistling. “Kyle. Let’s go, my good boy.”
As I take my first step, I turn back and stare down at Layton cool as a cucumber on the beach. “Here’s the thing. I don’t give a flying fig how much you make.”
I rush for the house, not running, but making time to get away from the man who can’t stop insulting me. Nope. That gives him a pass for his egregious behavior. It’s not that he can’t. It’s that he won’t.
* * *
Layton
I stand and brush the sand from my pants. The more I know about Livy Morgan, the more intrigued I am. She’s up the porch steps and is muttering under her breath, in full sentences to her dog, as she opens the door for him, when she stops dead in her tracks.
