Chapter 8
EIGHT
LEVI
The song is killing me.
I’ve been staring at my notebook for two hours, trying to write something meaningful for Dean and Jo’s ceremony. Something that captures who they are. Something that doesn’t sound like every other wedding song ever written.
So far I have:
When you find the one who sees you—
Cliché. Delete.
Love is patient, love is—
That’s literally the Bible. Scrap it.
She walked into his life like—
Like what? A hurricane? A dream? A woman who feeds his dog table scraps against his explicit instructions?
I throw my pen across the room. It bounces off the wall and lands somewhere behind the couch.
This should be easy. Dean is my brother. Jo makes him happy in a way I’ve never seen. They’re getting married in two months, and Dean asked me to write an original piece for the ceremony.
“Nothing fancy,” he said. “Just something real.”
As if that’s simple. As if “real” is simple. As if I haven’t been trying to access anything real and coming up empty.
The irony isn’t lost on me that the only real thing I’ve written lately is about Delilah. About coffee stains and chaos and questions I’m afraid to ask. Fragments I scribble at two in the morning and pretend don’t exist by sunrise.
I used to write entire albums in the time it’s taken me to not write this one song. But that was before the well dried up. Before I came back to Twin Waves chasing a feeling I can’t name and running into one I wasn’t ready for.
Can’t exactly play that at my brother’s wedding.
I check my phone. 4:47. Dean gets off at five, and we’re supposed to hit the gym. Maybe some physical exhaustion will shake a melody loose. Or at least tire me out enough to stop thinking about a woman who’s left me twice and lives three streets away from where I’m sleeping.
I grab my keys and head out.
Dean’s place is a small bungalow three blocks from the beach—close enough to smell the salt air, far enough to avoid the tourist traffic. It’s neat in the way bachelor pads are neat: functional furniture, minimal decoration, a single plant in the window that Jo definitely bought him.
I’m walking up the front path when Dean’s truck pulls into the driveway. He climbs out still in his work clothes, looking tired but not unhappy.
“Give me ten to change,” he says by way of greeting.
“Take your time.”
I follow him inside. The house is quiet. Too quiet.
“Where’s Rex?”
Dean frowns. “Should be here. Jo came by at lunch to let him out.”
He whistles. The sharp two-note command that Rex has responded to since he was a puppy.
Nothing.
He tries again. Harder this time. Then he’s moving—backyard, bedroom, bathroom, garage—each room checked and dismissed in seconds, the same systematic sweep he’d use on a structure fire. I’ve seen my brother handle emergencies for a living. He doesn’t panic. He assesses, he acts, he stays level.
But when he comes back to the kitchen, his hand is gripping the counter edge and his jaw is set in a way I haven’t seen since Dad was in the hospital.
“He’s never done this,” Dean says. “Not once. Not in three years.”
“Dean.” I point to the side gate. It’s hanging open, the latch dangling uselessly. “Did you know that was broken?”
Something moves across his face—quick, raw, immediately buried.
Rex isn’t just his dog. Rex was his partner on the search-and-rescue team before Dean made chief.
They worked wildfire evacuations together.
Rex found a lost hiker in the Smokies when every other team had given up.
That dog is the one living thing Dean has never had to convince himself to love.
“That gate has been fine for three years,” he says, and his voice is steady, but he’s already grabbing the leash from the hook by the door, and his hands aren’t quite as calm as his tone.
“Apparently Rex disagreed.”
Dean pulls out his phone, probably to call Jo, then thinks better of it. “She’ll panic. Let’s find him first.”
“Any idea where he’d go?”
“He’s a trained search-and-rescue dog who spent five years learning to track scents across miles of wilderness.” Dean locks the front door behind us. “He could be anywhere in this county by now.”
Twenty minutes later, we’ve learned several things:
One: Mrs. Jamison saw Rex heading east on Magnolia Street, was very concerned, and also wanted to know if Dean could check her smoke detectors sometime.
Two: Mr. Fernandez caught a glimpse of him going west on Oak Avenue, chasing what was either a squirrel or a very large rat.
Three: Pastor Williams found him sniffing around the Methodist church parking lot and offered to pray for his safe return.
Four: Everyone in this town has opinions about everything, and they will share them whether you ask or not.
“He’s messing with us,” Dean mutters, scanning the street for the fortieth time. “He knows exactly what he’s doing.”
“He’s a dog.”
“He’s a menace disguised as a dog.” Dean runs a hand through his hair. “Jo’s been spoiling him. Scraps under the table, letting him on the furniture. He thinks rules don’t apply to him anymore.”
“Sounds like someone I know.”
Dean shoots me a look. “Don’t start.”
We turn onto Palmetto Lane, and Dean slows.
“What?” I ask.
“This is Delilah’s street.”
My pulse picks up, which is ridiculous. I’m not seventeen. I’m not the kid who used to drive past her mom’s shop hoping to catch a glimpse of her through the window. That kid got left. Twice. The adult version should know better.
“Since when? Her mom used to live over on—”
“Eleanor inherited her grandmother’s place. Moved here after the old lady passed.” Dean raises an eyebrow. “You didn’t know that?”
“How would I know that?”
“Because you’ve been to my house approximately eight hundred times, and basic observation skills would suggest—”
“I was focused on other things.”
“Sure you were.”
We’re halfway down the block when Dean stops dead.
“There.” He points.
A white house with blue shutters and a garden that looks like a flower shop exploded in the front yard. Tulips everywhere. An old pear tree heavy with blossoms. And in the backyard, visible through the wooden fence—
Two dogs.
Rex, lying in the grass like he owns the place.
And Ruffy, sitting beside him like a fluffy, suspicious bodyguard.
“You have got to be kidding me,” Dean says.
The tension drains out of his shoulders so fast I can see it happen. He drops his head, exhales through his nose, and mutters something I can’t quite catch but probably isn’t suitable for church.
Dean strides toward the fence, leash in hand, full fire-chief authority in his voice.
“Rex. Come.”
Rex lifts his head. Looks at Dean. Looks at Ruffy.
Puts his head back down.
“Rex.” Dean’s voice drops an octave. “Now.”
Rex’s tail wags lazily. He doesn’t move.
Ruffy, on the other hand, has noticed us. He’s on his feet now, positioning himself between Rex and the fence. His eyes lock onto me with an intensity that suggests he remembers exactly who I am.
The back door opens.
Delilah steps onto the porch, barefoot, wearing faded jeans and an oversized sweater. Her hair is pulled back in a messy ponytail, and she’s holding a coffee mug like a weapon.
Something in my chest does the thing it always does when I see her. The stupid, traitorous lurch that ignores everything my brain has learned about self-preservation.
“Can I help you?” she calls, then registers who we are. “Oh. It’s you.”
“Your dog has my dog,” Dean says.
“My dog didn’t do anything. Your dog broke into my yard.” She sets down her mug and crosses her arms. “Ruffy was minding his own business when this one came sailing over the fence like some kind of furry Houdini.”
“Rex doesn’t jump fences.”
“Then how do you explain him being in my backyard?”
Dean opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks at the fence, which is a solid five feet tall.
I’m looking at it too, doing the math. Dean’s side gate was broken—that’s how Rex got out of Dean’s yard.
But Delilah’s fence is locked and intact.
Which means Rex, a seventy-pound German Shepherd, cleared five feet of solid wood to get to a dog he met once.
“Maybe your gate was open,” Dean tries.
“My gate has a lock. Because I’m not an amateur.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing. Dean looks genuinely baffled. Rex looks smug.
“Can I come get him?” Dean asks.
“Be my guest.”
Dean unlatches the gate and steps into the yard. Ruffy immediately puts himself between Dean and Rex, ears flat, weight forward. Not threatening—just making it clear that nobody’s taking his friend without his approval.
“Ruffy,” Delilah says. “It’s okay. Let him through.”
Ruffy holds his ground for another long moment, then inches to the left. Just enough to let Dean pass.
“He’s very protective,” I offer from the fence, where I’m wisely staying put.
“He’s particular about who he trusts,” Delilah shoots back.
“He ignores everyone.”
“He doesn’t ignore Rex.”
She’s right. Ruffy is standing guard, yes, but he keeps glancing back at Rex like he’s protecting his new best friend rather than his territory. When Dean finally manages to clip the leash onto Rex’s collar, Ruffy lets out a low, mournful sound.
Not a warning. A protest.
Rex licks Ruffy’s face.
“Great,” Dean mutters. “Now they’re bonded.”
Getting Rex out of the yard takes another ten minutes, mostly because he’s suddenly developed selective hearing and Ruffy keeps getting in the way. By the time Dean finally wrestles him through the gate, both dogs look deeply betrayed.
“I don’t know what’s gotten into him,” Dean says, holding Rex’s leash like a hostage negotiator.
“I do.” Delilah’s watching Ruffy, who’s pressed against the fence, staring after Rex with mournful eyes. “He’s lonely. They both are.”
Something about the way she says it makes my chest tight. I wonder if she hears herself. If she knows she’s not just talking about the dogs.
Dean’s phone buzzes. He checks it and sighs. “Jo. I have to call her back or she’ll assume I died.” He looks at me. “You good?”
“I’m fine.”