Chapter 5 #2
If I hustle, I might be able to make it down the porch steps and around the corner before Noah sees me. I’m not sure why I want to avoid him, exactly, just that the thought of bumping into him while I’m knee-deep in feelings about love, death, and dogs makes me feel itchy in my own skin.
I call Frank, who is now moving with the glacial urgency of a retired sloth. I swear, the dog can hear the mail truck too, and he’s in no rush to leave his morning routine of stretching, barking, and offering Noah his best guard dog impression.
“Frank. Let’s go.”
He blinks at me like I’ve ruined his day, and because I’m feeling too restless to deal with passive-aggressive dog stares, I give his bottom a gentle shove to get him moving.
He lumbers down the porch like an arthritic goat, and I tumble forward after him, still hopping on one foot, trying to jam my other sneaker on without untying.
Frank’s leash ends up clenched between my teeth, one shoe skids down the front steps, and I’m pretty sure the neighbors are watching me lurch around like a feral Muppet.
All I can think is: Please let me avoid Noah and my feelings and whatever potential mail is addressed to Owen today.
But the truck’s already parked in its spot a few houses down from mine, and Noah and his impressively long legs are moving with confidence toward my front door.
I’m not going to make it.
“So…” Noah stretches out the syllables as he eyes my half-shoed state before popping the mail in my mailbox and looking at Frank, who’s casually stretched out on my porch. “Looks like you’re keeping the dog? And going for a walk?”
“I haven’t decided yet, on the dog, I mean.” I finish lacing up my tennis shoes.
“Looks like you were on the fence there with the walk too.”
I figure it’s better not to mention the fact that I’ve already memorized the sound of Frank’s peculiar snoring and know exactly how he likes his ears rubbed. “We’re coexisting.”
Noah raises an eyebrow, leveling me with a stare that speaks volumes. “I dare you to keep him.”
I feel it rise, automatic and hot. The ridiculous pull of a dare.
He knows what he’s doing. In college, he and Owen would make up the most absurd dares just to see how far they could push me.
They learned fast: I could never resist one.
Not since third grade, when Emily Bishop double-dog dared me to eat an entire packet of Pop Rocks without closing my mouth.
I did it. Then hiccupped purple foam and got to go home early.
Worth it.
“You’re evil.” I glare at him before snapping the leash on Frank and giving it a gentle tug.
Noah shrugs, that same infuriating, irresistible grin spreading across his face.
“Maybe. But it doesn’t change the fact that the dare’s been extended.
” He backs down my porch slowly. “So I guess I’ll be seeing you…
and Frank… around.” And then he’s whistling a catchy tune while striding down the street.
I want to tell him that he can shove his dare and his cocky grin where I like to shove coupons for 10% off oil changes and commemorative stamps featuring endangered birds, but instead I just try not to enjoy the way his pants hug his ass.
Something flickers in my chest, something restless and real, the kind of feeling that makes you want to text someone something brave and then throw your phone into a lake. And then it’s squashed by the bottomless guilt.
I stare at the empty driveway for a few minutes before Frank presses his wet nose into my palm, clearly wondering why we were in such a hurry to get out the door only to sit and stare at the concrete. But all I can think about is the word dare.
Maybe that’s the whole thing.
Maybe I don’t need a romance checklist or a grief checklist. Maybe I don’t need structured steps, self-help books, cathartic journaling prompts, or fifteen stages of healing, none of which ever actually feel like progress.
Maybe what I need is a list of good dares.
Not reckless ones. Not eat-an-entire-bag-of-cotton-candy-in-ten-minutes dares (though, let’s be honest, I’d still do it). But brave ones. Silly ones. Hopeful ones.
Like walk into a hardware store and purchase the screws to fix the fan, because Owen isn’t coming back to do it for me.
Or buy something with stripes, polka dots, and patterns because you can still wear color.
Kiss someone when you’re not entirely sure how it will end.
Keep the damn dog, even if he did pee on your favorite rug.
Want something just for you. Not because it’s sensible. Not because it’s expected. Simply because you want it.
Tell someone the truth, even if your voice shakes, especially if it does.
Tell yourself the truth. Not because it’ll fix anything. But because it might remind me I’m still capable of wanting, of choosing, of being me.
Grief doesn’t evaporate. But I can win against it in a stare-off and dare it back into its sad corner now and then.
Maybe healing doesn’t always look like softness.
Sometimes, it looks like saying yes to keeping a dog with a coat that resembles mashed prunes because someone raised his eyebrows and dared you to.
Damn it. I guess that’s it. I have a dog.