Chapter 14
The thing about walking dogs is that it gives you ample time to think, and happy, panting pups who look at you with soulful eyes—and love you because you are their ticket to ninety minutes of outside time—are very empathetic listeners should you want to divest your deepest, darkest secrets.
“I can’t stop thinking about him.” I scratch Stephen’s left ear as we wait to cross the road. “And I’ve tried.”
The sheepdog thumps his tail encouragingly. He sees the best in me. Unlike Mike.
“It’s why I went to yoga this morning.”
The light turns green, and we cross the street. “Despite all the breathing, clear-your-mind-body-soul-whatever, I can still see the blue ink in the margins of all the sonnets. Even as I’m downward dogging.”
Stephen stops to sniff a tree.
“I know. Rereading sonnets before I fall asleep every night doesn’t help. Maybe I should try actually reading all the articles my mom sent. But let’s be honest, concentrating on anything so boring is a bit of a problem at my cottage these days.”
Stephen sneezes and tugs on the leash.
“Because I hear him one way or another.” Rehearsing his lines or doing his general contractor thing. “I’m off to the library after this. Time to cram before my lunch date with Molly.”
I settle in at the library with my headphones on—big, obnoxious, noise-canceling ones, a trick of the trade I picked up when I crashed here between FroggoDoggo clients my first week as a dog walker.
While people assume I’m studying, particularly when I have my pen in hand, I’m usually reading fiction while all the lovely library sounds keep me company.
No one ever pauses to make small talk, and I get to enjoy my book along with the shuffle of the other patrons’ steps, the quiet scrape of books being shelved, hushed voices, turning pages.
Reading fiction here at midday, with sunshine filtering in, is the loveliest form of white noise there is, aside from the sound of ocean waves. It’s almost as decadent as the view from Mike’s living room.
Today, instead of fiction, I’m reviewing the stack of legal articles my mom sent my way to discuss at our lunch this afternoon.
I’m crabby. I’m distracted. I’m wondering why I was dumb enough to agree to one of my mother’s deals.
At least I’m not dumb enough to renege on our bargain.
I’ve been alive long enough to know that tactic never works where Molly McKinney is concerned.
While I’m resenting my assigned reading, Mike Benedick waltzes in.
He walks confidently to the Holds shelf. Bends, stoops, leans.
He does what I do—checking out what books other people have put on reserve. It’s a completely harmless way of getting good recs for your Tbr pile.
At the Del Mar library the summer I was studying for the bar exam, I had the initials of some particularly voracious readers memorized—PAT, COL and HOW, MAR—and I would always check to see what they were requesting.
Every time, there would be something worth adding to my own Tbr. God bless public libraries.
I make a mental note of where Mike is pausing so I can take a look to see if there’s anything of interest. Then one of the docents stops him.
Mike smiles and makes chitchat, and I go back to my soul-sucking legal articles.
A few minutes later, a tall surfer type approaches Mike. “Hey, bro,” he says, his voice loud enough for me to hear clearly despite my headphones. “Heard about the play.” He gives him a one-armed hug. “Congratulations.”
“Thanks, man,” Mike says, and he has the nerve to act all gracious.
“How’s the remodel going?”
“Slow. Hopefully, this will help.” He waves the book in his hand.
I squint, trying to catch the title.
“Are you still looking for a tenant for the studio? A buddy of mine was asking.”
“No.” He sighs. “No, it’s rented out.”
“Oh sweet. How’s the new neighbor? Ticked off about the detached garage?”
“Among other things, yeah. She parks on the street mostly and leaves aggressively punctuated notes on my trash can.”
To be fair, he did leave the lid off of the bin, and there is a known raccoon problem in San Diego County, not to mention some very brazen seagulls in La Jolla.
Mike rubs his hand absently through his hair. The bleached blond is growing farther and farther away from his scalp. One good haircut, and it’d be completely gone. “Yeah. Not a fan of the construction.”
“Let me guess. Newly divorced forty-nine-year-old with a crystal collection.”
“Like all the women you’ve been meeting on Tinder?”
“Hey.” The surfer bro laughs. “I’m also willing to date goat-yoga enthusiasts.”
“Look at you expanding your profile! I’m proud of you, man.”
“So?”
“So…”
“So my buddy is living the dream on the beach with nary a wall between him and some hottie.”
I don’t move. I keep my head bent over my articles, and hold my breath lest I breathe too loudly and miss what Mike’s about to say.
“I didn’t say she’s attractive.”
My pen skids.
“No, your dopey grin did. Tell me all about her.”
“She pays me rent via direct deposit the first of every month. And it’s hot. All those dollars dropping into my account. I can barely sleep at night.”
“Come on. Throw me a bone.”
“She’s a lawyer. Moved down here from Del Mar.
” Mike pauses, and I dare to glance up. “She’s quiet.
” He winces and pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Excruciatingly articulate when she starts talking. And not a fan of the construction. I’d offer to introduce you, but then she’d bury both of us in the same grave. ”
“That bad?”
“You have no idea.”
“Pretty, though?”
Mike frowns. “Sure.”
Sure? I drop my pen and then send the articles in my lap scattering to the floor despite my efforts to grab the stack.
Mike rolls his shoulders but doesn’t look over.
Thank heavens. I’m not proud of the heat rising inside of me. I’m going to blame it on his noncommittal—frankly insulting—sure. If you’re going to talk about a woman, you might as well say something better than sure.
“You want to meet her? She’s sitting over there.” As his buddy is turning, before my eyes can dart back down to the pages in front of me, he winks.
Mike winks at me.
“Lisa and I got back together,” his friend says, sounding serious now.
“How’s that going?”
“It’s going. Maybe you and your neighbor could join us for drinks—”
Mike rolls his eyes and brushes something off the front of his library book. “Come on, man. I’m her despised landlord who has the audacity to demo bathroom tile after nine a.m. Plus, I’ve got the play. It’d be more trouble than it’s worth.”
Mike’s friend laughs.
“What?”
“The quiet ones always are.”
They part, and I think I’ve successfully maintained the ruse that I’ve heard nothing. But then Mike comes over.
He leans against my armchair, obstructing my view of the arboretum. I pull off my headphones, bristling that I’ve been deemed trouble. “Story time in the children’s section isn’t for another hour.”
“Cute.” He pinches the corner of my rolled yoga mat peeking out of my tote, which makes me jerk it to the other side of my chair.
“You lost?”
“No.”
“Then what?” I ask.
“You look comfortable.”
“Is that a dig? Is that a way of saying I look like I’m not trying? Sloppy? Or, worse, I look privileged?”
“No.” He presses his lips together in a grim smile. “It was my opening statement before I asked if you just came from yoga.”
“Yeah. ‘Sure.’” I do my best to capture Mike’s inflection.
His eyes narrow. “Which studio?”
“Why?”
“So I can avoid it.”
“As scintillating as this conversation is, I have a one o’clock to prepare for.” I grab my notebook and aggressively turn to a blank page. “And I’m not a lawyer. I was a lawyer.”
“So you just read legal briefs for fun?”
I never should have taken that deal with my mother. “While we’re on the subject of fun, I’d find it super fun if on the weekends you could refrain from all the construction noise until after 10 a.m.” I tug my headphones back into place.
Mike leans in close, and before I can stop him, he toggles a switch on the side of my headphones. I flinch as complete silence envelops my ears.
Mike smirks and says something, but I hear nothing. “What?” I demand, tugging my headphones off.
“I said they work better when they’re turned on.” He straightens. “Fun to see you, Bea.”
He’s gone before I can object, and I hate that he gets the last word.