Not Mine to Take (High Lonesome #1)

Chapter 1

Rory

“Shit!” I shriek as my feet go out from under me.

I land with a thud on my ass, but I barely notice the pain because the hand that went out to break my fall is smack in the middle of a pile of dog shit. And it’s fresh—warm, soft, putrid.

Ick.

I gag as I wipe the foul-smelling paste on the rough grass, then glare at the one responsible for both the shit and the fall.

“You had to lunge for the squirrel, didn’t you?” I say.

Roscoe’s big brown eyes almost look apologetic, and it’s hard to stay mad at him. Those dog eyes get me every time. The big, sad eyes that guys give you, too. I’m a sucker for eyes. Or maybe just a sucker.

The Saint Bernard mix weighs something like one hundred and five pounds, so the second he darted toward the squirrel, I lost my balance, resulting in my less-than-graceful landing.

I’m not blameless here. I’ll admit that much. I was gazing at the horizon, daydreaming and trying to enjoy the beautiful weather.

We like to claim three hundred days of sunshine, but it’s really that Denver has three hundred days a year where the sun peeks out from the clouds for a little bit. It’s not three hundred days a year that it’s sunny all day. So I try to enjoy these moments when they happen.

And because I took four seconds to enjoy the weather, Roscoe’s dart caught me off guard. It’s further my fault because I didn’t pick up his shit in the first place. I was going to get it on our way back, once it…solidified, I suppose. Maybe it’s karma that my hand landed in it.

That absolutely sounds like my particular brand of karma.

I usually enjoy these walks, with the Rocky Mountains visible over the Denver skyline and the dry heat of summer, but right now, I just want to get to a sink.

I sigh as I pull myself up to stand. “Let’s get back inside, Roscoe. You did your business.”

Roscoe is the picture of obedience for our short walk back into the shelter where he’s a temporary resident.

As I let him off the leash and close the door to his kennel, my phone buzzes in my back pocket. Roscoe’s tail slowly stops wagging as he realizes our little trip outside was only a bathroom break and not a journey to a forever home..

“Sorry, boy. Hopefully soon.” I latch the door and head for the bathroom.

Most days, I try to spend more time one-on-one with the dogs, especially longer-term residents like Roscoe.

I’m a bleeding heart, and if I could take them all home, I would.

Right now, though, the best I can do is to spend time with them, make sure they know someone cares about them. Everyone needs some love.

But I really, really need to wash my hands.

“How am I still smelling this?” I ask out loud, even though I’m the only one in the bathroom.

I sniff my hand again. I’ve washed it seven times in the cold water. Yes, cold. Just another way we cut costs around here. Even with all the scrubbing, though, I swear I can still smell the shit beneath the scent of the cherry blossom soap.

Welp, I guess this is as good as it’s going to get for now. I have to get back to work; hopefully the lingering smell is just in my head.

Walking dogs and picking up poop—let alone falling in it—wasn’t exactly the career I had in mind when I majored in animal science.

I was still the starry-eyed young kid who thought working with animals would be glamorous.

I pictured my life with a dog like Lassie that followed me around and riding horses into the sunset.

But nope, not glamorous at all. Aside from the dog shit, there are hairballs to deal with, mangy cats, dogs with fleas. Plus, the occasional animal puke. And it’s not like the rest of my life is any better.

There are no paper towels in the bathroom—karma again—so I dry my hands on my jeans and pull my phone out of my pocket as I leave the bathroom, hoping the text I got earlier was my boyfriend, Finn, setting up dinner plans.

I haven’t seen him since Saturday, and I need a night out to erase the memory of today.

Finn

Hey, Rory. I hate to send this by text, but

My eyes blur as I try to read his message. What is he trying to say?

I think it’s best that we part ways. Nothing personal. It’s been fun, but this isn’t for me. Good luck with your roommate.

Seriously? Wasn’t landing in dog shit enough for one day?

I stare at my phone for another minute, waiting to see if more comes through, but after a few minutes, I take the hint. This is it. He’s breaking up with me.

Again.

To be clear, Finn hasn’t broken up with me before. But every guy I’ve dated in the last ten years or so has called it quits, always right when I start to think there might be a chance for us. That maybe I can fall in love.

That’s where I was getting with Finn. After two months, I was finally calling him my boyfriend, thinking maybe this time was different.

I guess I was wrong, just like all the other times.

History is bound to repeat itself, right? I just wish one of the guys who breaks up with me would be original. Call me a bitch, tell me that it’s not them, it’s me. Anything but the usual line: it’s been fun, but it’s time to call it quits.

I know I’m spiraling as I rip some paper towels from the roll—of course they’re stocked here and not in the bathroom where I needed them—and grab a spray bottle. Why does everything have to suck so bad?

Just once, I’d like to be able to really let loose on one of the guys that breaks up with me for no reason.

I let myself into the hallway behind the cat cages, the ammonia smell of feline urine barely registering as I imagine what I’d say to Finn if I could say what I really think.

You cowardly little fuck. Tell me the truth.

I dump used kitty litter into a trash can.

What was so wrong with me that you couldn’t see a future?

I spray the cleaning solution into the empty pan and start to scrub.

Tell me what I’m doing wrong. Just be honest.

After every guy I’ve dated has dumped me, I know I must be the problem. I’m the only common denominator, after all.

My hand hurts from gripping the paper towel so tightly, and I’ve scrubbed so hard the towel itself is in shreds, but the litter box looks brand new. That’s the benefit of rage cleaning—things get really, really scrubbed down.

I refill the litter and move on to another soiled box. Another day, more shit. I finish three litter boxes and head for the kennels where we keep the little dogs.

Everyone wants a cute little dog, one they can keep in their purse like Paris Hilton or something, so this is one of the most popular areas for adopters to wander through. Somehow, though, these little guys are never the ones that get adopted, and we end up with more than we can place.

The high-pitched yipping assaults my ears as I do my best to focus on work and not my latest failed relationship.

Spam, a miniature pinscher, has his front paws up against the glass of his enclosure while he stands on his hind legs, tail wagging furiously back and forth. Pick me, pick me, his face seems to say, his tongue lolling to one side.

Yeah, I was that hopeful once, too, buddy.

“Come on, Spam,” I say, clipping the leash to his collar.

He follows at my heel as I lead him out into the late-afternoon sunshine, his tail still wagging a mile a minute, so hopeful that this is it for him, that someone is here to take him away from the kennel and bring him home as part of their family.

I get it, Spam. Every time I meet someone new, I get excited, too. I think, this is it. This is the guy I’m going to fall in love with, the same way you think this might be your forever family.

But Spam will learn just like I have that it always ends in heartbreak. He ends up back in his kennel, alone in the world, and once again, I end up single.

I crouch down and look him in his sad, puppy dog face. “What am I going to do, Spam?”

Tears fill my eyes, and I do my best to blink them away. It’s not even that I was in love with Finn. Not yet. It’s just… I hoped this time would be different. I wanted to prove that I wasn’t unlovable, that I wasn’t doomed to a loveless life.

Because no matter how many times your mother says you’re special, when every boyfriend you’ve had since college dumps you, you realize—special or not—there’s still something wrong with you.

I knew I could still smell something.

When I finally change out of the boots I wear to work at the kennel, sliding on a pair of Teva sandals for my drive home, the smell gets stronger.

I flip over the boots and find more poop stuck to the sole, now caked in grass.

I do my best to clean it off before I stow the boots below my locker and head out for the day.

I make it about five minutes into my drive home before I cave and dial Finn’s number.

“Hello?” he answers, his tone guilty.

“Finn? It’s Rory. I, uh, got your text.”

I can picture his cringe when he says, “Yeah. I’m sorry, Rory.”

I wait for him to say more, but there’s just silence until I fill it in. “Can you at least tell me why, Finn? I thought things were going well. We talked about going out to dinner tonight. What changed between Saturday and today?”

I hate the shrill note creeping into my voice. Hold it together, Rory.

Finn lets out a long sigh that’s magnified through the car’s speakers. “I can’t explain it, Rory. Just know that things have changed. And I promise, you’re a great girl. You’re going to make some guy so happy someday. Just not…me. I’m not the right one for you.”

He ends the call, and I let out a shriek of frustration in the privacy of my car as I smack my hand against the steering wheel. Screw him. Screw all these guys who have dumped me with the same line over the years.

And screw me a little, too, because in the back of my mind is that same little voice that likes to speak up every time this happens.

This is what you did to your high school boyfriend, the one who said he’d love you forever. Remember that?

And there’s karma, once again. Leave the dog shit, and you fall in it.

Dump a guy right before high school graduation, no matter how noble your intentions, and you’re perpetually single for the rest of your life.

The Denver traffic turns a ten-minute drive into a thirty-minute one, and when I turn into my overpriced apartment complex, all I want to do is crawl into bed with a bag of gummy worms and watch a Disney movie.

Maybe one of the old-school ones, where animals talk and clean for you and where Prince Charming doesn’t break up with his love interest out of the blue.

The mailboxes are in a building near the entrance of our complex. Convenient for the mailman, wildly inconvenient for the rest of us. To check the mail, we have to either walk across the complex, which is not small, or make a stop here before parking closer to the apartment.

I lock my truck while I duck inside to check the mail. I can’t chance anything—not with the way my day is going.

Fingers crossed there’s something good in there that could help lift the black cloud that’s settled over my day. Maybe a package I ordered and forgot about, which happens about three times a week. With a bad memory, you, too, can give yourself fun surprises.

I turn the key in the rusted lock and pull open the tiny metal window.

There’s a stack of envelopes that look suspiciously like bills, a catalog I’ll never look at, and a few flyers.

I grip the stack in my hand and peer into the small box, hoping I missed the scrap of paper that would alert me to a package being held at the desk, or maybe a hundred dollar bill that’s mysteriously materialized there.

But, no dice.

I lean against the chipped paint of the cinder-block wall and sift through the envelopes: a few things for my roommate, Moira, a utilities bill, a cell phone bill, and a credit card bill even though I keep clicking on the thing to opt out of paper statements.

I consider leaving them all unopened, but I’m twenty-seven—twenty-eight next month—and I can’t keep fearing credit card bills. One, because I’m an adult, and two, because…well, collections agencies.

The amount due is in big, bold numbers, along with red lettering reading Past Due.

I cringe and tuck the papers under the rest of the mail. The utilities bill is blessedly lower than I expected in the summer heat, even with how much my roommate and I run the air conditioner in our tiny apartment.

It’s not the luck I was hoping for, which makes me afraid to look at the rest of the mail. Good luck for me never comes in twos, so that blessing feels a little wasted right now.

After sifting through a few pieces of junk mail, I find a postcard in familiar shades of forest green and yellow tucked between the last envelope and the catalog.

I flip it over and the word REUNION screams at me in all capital letters. I scan through it, words popping out at me as I read. Lonesome Pine High School. Ten years. September. Plus one.

The colors of my alma mater bring back a flood of memories. Walking through the halls of Lo-Pine High. Afternoons spent at the barn with my best friend, Allie. Sneaking under the bleachers after a home football game for my first kiss with the boy I loved.

The door squeaks as another tenant wanders in to get his mail, but I barely register his presence as the memories come crashing down around me.

Then reality hits.

Hard.

Because one: I’m old enough to be going to my high school reunion, and two: I’d have to go up to High Lonesome for it.

And three: I’m going to see all those old classmates.

Including Nate.

Maybe if I give him an explanation, I can rid myself of this love curse. But can my heart handle seeing him again?