26. Emory
EMORY
By eight in the morning, Blue Crab Bay has transformed into a dog-themed Olympic village with the emotional intensity of a playoff game and the regulatory oversight of a lemonade stand.
The Point is lined with chalk lanes that look official until you notice every single one drifts slightly right. Orange cones stand in uneven rows. Dogs bark from every direction. Somebody’s playing eighties rock loud enough to count as community outreach, and a banner flaps between two live oaks:
BIG DOG RANCH RESCUE
The humidity is heavy enough to make my shirt stick, while the smell of funnel cakes being advertised as breakfast waffles makes my stomach growl.
Folding chairs have already been arranged with the territorial aggression of retirees fully prepared to throw elbows for a good view and shade. Most of them are wearing bandanas with Hank’s face on them.
Cartoon Hank with his tongue hanging out and little bottom teeth poking through exactly like the real thing.
Kids and dogs wear them around their necks. A dachshund has one wrapped around its middle. Willard is wearing one around his straw hat while Chip balances near his shoe, collecting peanuts as if it’s one of today’s competitive sports.
The Hank bandanas mark Stay the Day participants. The people too young, too old or unable to compete are still part of the day. Bethany told me Jake started it after a little girl burst into tears the first year because she was too young to enter anything.
So he created an event for spectators.
Which somehow feels exactly like him.
Not wanting anybody left out.
Mrs. Kravitz is set up on the sidelines with a folding chair, notebook, thermos and... a judge’s scoring paddle.
No one gave her a scoring paddle.
Miss Hattie stands beside The Salty Dog cart shouting about mustard distribution strategy. “The mustard should suggest itself, not assault the wiener!” One man immediately adjusts his squeeze technique.
I’m holding a waiver that feels legally binding in at least seven states and a folded event schedule when Ryan appears beside me and hands me a lemonade.
“Kids set up a stand by the dock,” he says.
I take a sip and wowza. It’s got some serious pucker power.
“Little heavy on the lemons, huh.”
“My jaw just filed a formal complaint.”
He laughs quietly. Ryan somehow always looks completely at ease no matter where he is. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him rattled. Or maybe Wayne is just such a… Wayne that everyone near him automatically looks calmer by comparison.
Somewhere behind us, Wayne yells something about bananas, as if right on cue. “He’s been awake since five,” Ryan says.
“Why?”
“We don’t know.”
“I was strategizing!” Wayne shouts from somewhere near the registration tent.
“He has hella good hearing,” I say under my breath.
“When he wants to,” Ryan says.
“Mo.”
I turn, smiling and hope it’s not as big, goofy and giddy as my insides feel.
Jake’s walking toward me in a black bulldog skull and crossbones tee like he’s about to captain a pirate ship for charity. Hat backwards. Dark aviators on. Hank trotting next to him, soaking in his celebrity status.
“Good morning,” he says softly, sliding an arm around my waist and pressing a kiss to my lips. The butterflies in my stomach take flight.
This feels so natural now. Him kissing me. His hand finding mine automatically like it belongs there.
And maybe it does.
Wayne appears beside us and points with both hands. “THERE IT IS. Ryan, are you seeing this? Are you seeing the waist thing?”
“I’m standing right here,” Ryan says.
“The waist thing is—“
“Wayne,” Jake warns.
“—a whole relationship communicated through hand placement.”
“Wayne.”
“I studied film. I know what I’m looking at.”
I glance up at Jake. “Does he always—“
“YES,” Jake and Ryan say in unison.
Bethany walks past carrying a box of bottled water in her arms. “I’ve got a hand placement for you,” she says without slowing down.
“Name the time and the place,” Wayne calls.
We head toward registration, where a kid in an OFFICIAL STAFF shirt is clutching a clipboard. “Wheeler and Donovan,” Jake says.
The kid looks up. His eyes go wide. He fumbles the clipboard and catches it. “Good recovery,” Jake says.
“Kid’s got potential,” Ryan adds.
The poor kid checks us in with shaky hands. “Lane four for Fetch-A-Fish,” he says. “Ball Bowl Roll is east lawn. Tug-A-Shore south dock. Doggy Paddle staging near the lighthouse. Holler Crawler…” He hesitates. “You’ll know.”
“Why does that sound threatening?” I ask.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Wayne leans over the clipboard, then looks around wildly. “Ryan, what’s our team name?”
“We don’t have one.”
“We need branding.”
“We do not.”
“The Buccaneer Ballers.”
“No.”
“The Ball Slappers.”
“No.”
“The Scoregasms?”
Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose. “We’re not calling ourselves the Scoregasms at a charity dog event.”
“Kerr and Knox,” Ryan tells the kid.
The kid scans the sheet. Clears his throat. “Kerr isn’t registered.”
Silence.
Wayne blinks slowly. “I’m sorry.”
“Kerr isn’t on the list.”
“Wayne Kerr. Tampa Bay Buccaneers.”
The kid checks again. Then looks at Wayne. Then back at his clipboard. “Not here.”
Wayne’s mouth falls open. “BETHANY!” he hollers. “I know that vixen is behind this!” He storms off in the direction she was last headed.
Jake laughs first.
Then Ryan.
Then me.
Ryan steps forward. “Knox.”
“Who’s your partner gonna be now?” I ask.
“Looks like I’ll float,” Ryan says. “Fill in where needed.”
Jake squeezes my hand lightly. “Ready?”
“No.”
He grins. “Good.”
We head toward Fetch-A-Fish, where a man in a referee shirt drops a cooler at our feet and flips it open.
Whole fish.
Whole dead fish.
Extremely dead wet fish.
I stare down into the cooler, then slowly turn toward Jake.
“I was going to mention it.”
“When?”
“Eventually.”
Lane two erupts as Wayne discovers what’s inside his cooler. “I DID NOT AGREE TO TOUCH A FISH!”
“You paid twenty dollars to touch a fish,” Ryan reminds him.
“I paid twenty dollars for the idea of fish. Not the physical manifestation.”
“I’ll pay you twenty dollars to shut the hell up,” Bethany yells from behind him.
“It’s for the dogs,” Ryan reminds him.
Wayne stares into the cooler. Then at Ryan. Then back at the cooler. “The dogs better appreciate this.”
The referee blows a whistle.
“You toss it to your partner,” he explains. “Partner catches it, runs it to their bucket. You alternate tossing and catching. Fastest team to get four fish in their buckets wins.”
The whistle blows again. I grab the first fish. It is cold. It is slippery. It’s an entire personal crisis with gills. I lob it toward Jake.
The fish spins in midair and baptizes me in fish juice.
Jake catches it cleanly. Of course he does. He drops it in the bucket and tosses one back to me.
It slaps into my hands and immediately attempts to spiritually return to the Atlantic. I shriek.
“Grip it!” someone yells. I don’t know who that was, but we are now enemies.
Somewhere in the chaos, Wayne has replaced Ryan with my grandmother. One minute Ryan is there. The next Granny rolls forward on her scooter like she’s responding to a distress beacon.
Wayne launches a fish at her with zero warning.
Granny, visor backward, perched on her scooter, catches it one-handed.
Perfectly.
Wayne immediately launches another one. She catches that too.
“THROW ONE TO ME!” Wayne screams.
Granny does. It sails directly over Wayne’s head and lands squarely in the lap of a woman peacefully minding her own business in a folding chair.
The crowd gasps.
Mrs. Kravitz slowly raises her scoring paddle.
“Two points for artistic interpretation,” she announces.
Granny secures the final fish, reverses her scooter with the precision of someone who parallel parks on purpose, and launches it into the bucket.
They win. By a lot. Wayne throws both arms into the air like confetti cannons should fire.
Granny circles one finger overhead. Three silver haired women immediately appear beside her.
Cash changes hands.
Jake groans. “Oh no.”
“What is happening?” I whisper.
“Dog Days gambling ring,” Bethany says, as she walks up beside me. “Second year running.”
Granny pulls a small spiral notebook from inside her shirt.
She’s taking bets.
At a dog fundraiser.
Wayne approaches cautiously. “Maddy. I’d like to place a wager.”
“You still owe me eighty dollars.”
He squints. “For what.”
“Gin rummy. Last night. Eleven thirty. Kicked your ass.”
He turns toward Jake in disbelief. “She hustled me.”
Granny scribbles in her notebook. “No bets until you pay your debts.”
Wayne looks at Jake hopefully. “No,” Jake says.
“Come on, you know I’m good for—“
“No.”
He turns toward Ryan.
“That eighty was mine,” Ryan says. “So hell no.”
Granny snaps the notebook closed, tucks it back into her bra, and scooters away.
The next event is Ball Bowl Roll.
Two dog bowls. A bucket of small bouncy balls. Roll them in.
Ryan approaches the lane like it’s fourth and goal. He crouches down, studies the angles, and rolls his first ball with surgical precision.
It goes in.
Second roll.
In again.
“That’s it?” Wayne says.
Ryan looks over. “What were you expecting?”
“Where’s the drama? The flair? Human triumph?”
“It went in.”
“It went in boring.” Wayne grabs a ball from the bucket. “I’ve got a system that involves spin.” Wayne crouches. Reconsiders. Stands. “I actually think I want to approach this from a standing position.”
“For fuck’s sake,” Bethany mumbles beside me.
I laugh. She laughs too. We hip bump in silent solidarity.
Wayne rolls.
With spin.
The ball ricochets off the rim of the bowl, bounces twice, and clips Mrs. Kravitz in the shin.
She raises the paddle.
A four.
Behind them, Granny whispers to a cluster of retirees like a Vegas bookie in orthopedic sandals. “I’m telling you,” she says quietly, “don’t underestimate Donovan. She overthinks. That’s strategic.”
Jake leans close enough that his shoulder brushes mine. “You’re favored. No pressure.” The warmth of his voice near my ear does extremely unhelpful things to my concentration.
Jake rolls low and controlled while I guard angles.
One ball ricochets off a toddler’s juice box and explodes cherry juice across the front of him. A labrador happily rushes in to help clean up.
Another ball disappears because Hank has stationed himself directly behind the bowls with the determination of a dog who knows this is his event even if he’s not officially competing.
“Hank,” Jake warns. Hank maintains eye contact and does not move.
We finish second.
Across The Green, Ryan sits with his elbows on his knees beside Willard handing peanuts to Chip. The sight of this quiet little pocket at the edge of the noise catches me unexpectedly. “How long have they been sitting there?” I ask.
Jake glances over. “About twenty minutes.”
“I just realized I’ve never really seen Willard talk to anyone.”
Jake watches and says, “Willard talks to the people who need it.” Something about the way he says it settles softly inside me.
Wayne wanders over beside us and watches them too. “Ryan’s talking to the bench man,” he says. “Ryan’s been…“ He trails off. Starts again. “He needed this trip.” The sincerity lasts all of four seconds. Then he claps loudly. “OKAY. What’s next? I feel like we’re peaking.”
“You hit an old woman in the shin,” I remind him.
“Peak performance.”
On the other side of The Green, a woman in crisp white linen and expensive sunglasses approaches the registration table. “Who’s that?” I ask.
Jake squints slightly while plucking a fish scale from my hair. “Elizabeth Baskins,” he says. “Thursday night sideline reporter.”
Oh goodie. National television has arrived, and I smell like fish with scales in my hair.
Wayne goes completely still. “That’s Elizabeth Baskins.”
“We established that,” Jake says.
“She’s so pretty,” Wayne whispers.
“Wayne,” Jake says carefully. “No.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“Your face is doing all the talking.”
“This is my normal face.”
Ryan rejoins us just in time to follow Wayne’s eyeline. He immediately groans. “Oh no.”
“I just want to say hello,” Wayne says defensively.
“The last time you ‘just wanted to say hello’ to a reporter,” Ryan says, making air quotes, “you got called into the coach’s office for an hour.”
“That was different.”
“Wayne.”
“I’ll say a very professional hello and then leave immediately.”
“Define immediately,” Ryan says.
“Within an hour.” He’s already walking away.
Ryan sighs the sigh of a man who has supervised Wayne in public before.
Then he looks at us. At our joined hands. At Jake smiling. “It’s really good to see you two,” he says quietly. “Like this.”
Jake doesn’t answer out loud. He just threads his fingers through mine and holds on.
I step closer, slide my free arm around his waist, and rest my head against his chest. “Wayne had a chart,” I tell Ryan.
Ryan laughs. “He had a chart.”