“If I’m awake,” I tell him, trying to act nonchalant but knowing I’ll set my alarm if I have to.

  The next morning I wake up a few minutes before my alarm goes off and hop up. I can’t remember when I’ve bounced out of bed, but I haven’t had time off in so long, sleeping nine hours straight hasn’t happened in years. I have a crease on the side of my cheek, another big no-no. I’ve gotten used to sleeping with pillows surrounding me so I’ll stay on my back to avoid wrinkles and creases—something my coach recommended—but it has felt so good to ignore that and go back to my side. I press my fingertips along the crease and grin, pleased with my freedom.

  I beat Miles there and begin stretching while I wait for him. I go through a series of yoga poses and am on the Bound Lotus pose when I hear him move next to me. Instead of saying anything, he studies me and sits down. The next thing I know, he’s trying to get his limbs to cooperate, crisscrossing his feet and attempting to get them as tight as mine are.

  He grimaces and then says, “What sort of voodoo magic is this?”

  I laugh and nod my head toward him. “Crisscross your arms in the back and try to touch your feet.”

  He tries it and his feet keep sliding further away. “That’s just not possible.” He glares at my hands.

  I snort. “Try again tomorrow and the next day…and the next. You’ll get there.”

  I tilt my head back and close my eyes for a few seconds, enjoying the breeze against my face. When I open my eyes, he’s staring at me with an expression I can’t read, but it makes me flush. Flustered, I untwist myself and stand up, shaking my arms out. Just past him, something catches my eye and I stop.

  A massive dog, filthy and matted, looks at us skittishly. He doesn’t get close, but he sees we’re between him and a nearby garbage can that he must frequent on the beach.

  I move toward him and he backs away but stops when I stop. I sit on my haunches and stay still. He’s too hungry to pay attention to me. He skirts past me, loping in a way that seems a bit unusual, but then I realize he’s missing a back leg. It’s remarkable the way he doesn’t seem hindered by that at all. When he gets to the garbage can, he looks back at me as if he feels much safer to have that distance between us. I remember the peanut butter granola bar I always keep in my fanny pack and open it slowly.

  I hold it out for him and his nose wiggles as he catches a whiff. I carefully set it on the ground in front of me and sit. It takes about five minutes of him inching forward, but his hunger wins out. When he gets close enough to touch, I want to reach out and console him, but I don’t dare. He picks up the granola bar and takes it back to the garbage can to eat it.

  “Poor guy,” Miles whispers.

  When the dog has inhaled the granola bar, he inches closer to me again. “I wish I had more to give you,” I tell him. “How about you come home with me and we will take care of each other.”

  I hold my hand up and he presses his nose against it, tap, tap, tap. I scratch his ears and it’s like he softens right before my eyes.

  “I don’t think he could say yes any clearer,” Miles says.

  3

  Cort

  “I think I might skip the run this morning and take him home to feed him.” I rub underneath the dog’s ear and he leans into my hand. “Look at him,” I whisper. “I think he’s all fur.”

  “Nothing but the grocery store is open right now, but I could stop by and get enough food for a few days...drop it by in twenty?”

  “You’d do that?” I look up at him for a second and shade my eyes to see him better. The sun is out in full-force now. His grin is wide and makes me smile back.

  “Of course. Let me help you get him home and then I’ll take off.”

  “Thank you, Miles. That’s really sweet.” I tell him.

  He gets an odd look on his face then, his jaw ticking a few times like he’s gritting his teeth.

  “You know what? It’s okay. I’ve got it,” I say.

  He clears his throat. “No, it’s not a problem. Come on, let’s see if he’ll follow us.” He’s still saying the words kindly, but the easiness between us has shifted.

  I nod and stand up straight. The dog looks up at me, uneasy, like he’s not sure what I’ll do to him next. I smile at him and pat my leg, walking a few steps away. I turn back and he stands forlornly, watching me.

  “Come on, boy,” I say softly. I pat my leg again and turn from him, walking toward my car.

  “Keep going. He’s following,” Miles whispers next to me.

  It takes a while to get there, stopping and waiting for the poor dog to get the nerve to follow us. When I reach my gate, I open it wide and make fleeting eye contact with him. I whisper encouragement and stand as still as I can. It takes a few minutes, but then he ambles over and walks through. I shut the gate, eyes wide, and beam at Miles.

  “Looks like you’ve got yourself a dog,” he says. “I’ll be over soon. If you’re not able to get to the door, I can leave it on your front step.” He’s turning and going back through the gate before I can respond.

  Weird.

  Maybe I wanted to imagine he was attracted to me and misread a few of his lingering glances. Maybe he has a girlfriend. Maybe I’m so out of practice I wouldn’t know if a guy was genuinely interested in anything real to save my life. That’s likely.

  It’s just as well. I am nowhere near ready for a relationship anyway. A friend with benefits is tempting…eventually. But even that is too much for me right now.

  “It’s you and me.” I glance over at the dog and he looks like a human sitting tall and looking straight ahead. “What are we gonna call you?”

  He looks at me then and stares intently.

  “You look like an Alex,” I tell him.

  He ducks his head shyly, as if he agrees.

  “Alex it is.”

  I’m trying to figure out the best place to bathe Alex when I hear something outside. I look out the peephole and see Miles bending down. When I open the door, I see the bag of food he’s left on the front step. He’s turning around to walk away.

  “You making your escape?” I ask, looking past him to make sure no one else is lurking outside.

  He flushes slightly and shrugs then looks behind him to see where I’m looking. “Didn’t want to startle the dog.”

  “Alex,” I say.

  “Alex?”

  “That’s his name. We discussed it just now and he’s cool with it.”

  “Um, why?” His smile quirks up on the right side and I realize I really enjoy making Miles smile.

  “Growing up, we had a plumber who saved us one winter,” I tell him. “His name was Al Webster. So I’m just passing on the good vibes.”

  “Ahh. Let’s see.” He turns to the dog. “Alex!” he calls.

  Alex’s ears perk up and he tilts his head to the side.

  “Can’t say I’ve ever met a dog named Alex after a plumber or otherwise, but he’s owning it.” Miles nods. He lifts his hand to the back of his neck and gives his hair a tug.

  He’s acting so different than the other times we’ve been around each other—like he can’t wait to leave. I frown at him and he looks away.

  “All right, good luck,” he says.

  “Oh, okay. Come in. Let me grab some money.” When he doesn’t move, I talk faster. “Thanks for the food. And for helping me get him here. Alex and I appreciate it.” I grin, holding out my hand to try to pet Alex. He jumps but doesn’t run away. “You’re welcome to stay for breakfast. As thanks for helping me give this dog a bath…hint, hint…” I laugh when I pet a clump of dirt matted in his coat.

  “I should probably get going,” Miles says, and while I stand there staring at him, he jogs away.

  “Now that’s what you call literally running someone off,” I tell Alex, shutting the door and locking it. “And you should know now, I don’t use the word literally lightly.”

  For the next couple of days, I get used to life with a dog. I’ve never had a pet and have always wanted one. Alex acts like he’s never had a human and has always wanted one, so it’s kind of like the best thing ever for both of us. Turns out, underneath that matted grime, he looks like an adorably mop-headed labradoodle in need of a good haircut. I order a collar and a leash and set up an appointment to visit a vet within a few days. I watch him like a hawk and take him outside any time I think he needs to go. He follows me so closely, I trip on him half the time, but he never whimpers or makes even a slight protest. He seems grateful. And I’m so grateful for his company that when I lie down at night and the nightmare of the past few years begins to play through my head as it has every night for so long, just knowing he’s right here by my side calms me. I’m finally able to fall asleep and sleep through the night…until I have another nightmare about Clive. I wake up crying and Alex licks my face and then stares at me until he knows I’m okay. He’s just what I needed.

  After a few days, I decide to brave the beach again. I look for Miles, but we run up and down the beach for an hour and never see him. Next day, same. No sign of Miles. I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t disappoint me, but I remind myself that I don’t need the distraction anyway.

  Instead, I work on furnishing my house…one click of the mouse at a time. I settle on a huge grey couch and buy all the stain resistant options possible, clicking “purchase” before I can second-guess myself. Pillows and throws are next and then I go to a few favorite artists I stalk on Instagram. One up-and-coming artist who has ever-changing hair colors and the singing voice of an angel has intrigued me since I found her account a couple of years ago. She has an eye for color that speaks to me. Sometimes she does faces with eyes that haunt me…but in a good way. Like they know something I don’t know but want to find out. I look through what she’s working on and message her to see if she does commissions.

  I basically do everything I can to avoid any human interaction except for my runs on the beach every morning. One morning I think I see Miles about a mile away, but the guy turns around and runs the other direction. After a week of not seeing him, I can’t stand it any longer and call him.

  He picks up on the second ring. “Miles Stark,” he says.

  “I can find a new place to run if you’re avoiding me,” I say.

  “Cort?”

  “Oh, you’re avoiding another blonde with an oversized dog? He’s a labradoodle, by the way. The vet thinks around two years old.”

  “I’m not—I’ve been busy,” he says, but nothing about his tone convinces me.

  “Okay, well, I just wanted to let you know I’m running somewhere else now, so you can have your beach back.”

  “Cort…I—”

  “Gotta go. Alex needs to go out.”

  I hang up and shake my head. Now I’m sure it was him the other day, running the opposite direction when he saw me.

  Unable to leave it alone, the next morning Alex and I show up at the beach twenty minutes later than usual and wait. About ten minutes later, Miles shows up and doesn’t see us sitting on the sand near a cove of trees. He looks up and down the beach and when he doesn’t see anyone, he stretches and starts running.

  That little bastard.

  I run in the opposite direction and when the sun starts to peek over the horizon, I turn and head back toward where we started. Miles is heading back too—I should’ve timed it better so this wouldn’t happen, but I’m too tired to keep going. I see him before he sees me—I can tell when he does because he slows down just a bit. When we get close, his eyes do their roam up and down me almost like he can’t help himself. Instead of stopping, I give him a little wave and keep running. It takes everything in me to not stop and tell him off, but I don’t need to make any more enemies. My life is full of too many enemies as it is…or will be soon enough.

  4

  Miles

  When I found myself making sure I looked decent before going out for my run the other day, I knew Cort was a problem. Since I met her, whenever we’ve parted ways, I’ve looked forward to the next time I could see her.

  I can’t stop thinking about her.

  Her eyes. That hair. Her laugh. And fuck me. That body. I’ve resorted to watching her movies—two of them back to back before bed a couple of nights ago. She was the star of my dreams and I woke up so hard, it was painful. That’s a big problem.

  I haven’t pursued a girl since Mira—haven’t had to. My relationships have consisted of a few drinks, maybe a dinner, and hookups that don’t go beyond a time or two. Not how I pictured myself turning out. Most guys at twenty-four live for this, crave it even, and I have to admit, I’ve settled into it. Despite the fact that I used to be the type who wanted someone to go home to—someone who knows me better than I know myself and loves me anyway—I’ve learned to adjust. That’s what heartbreak does: it teaches you lessons you don’t want to learn.

  But when she thanked me for being so sweet, so nice, my blood ran cold. That’s a clear indication of a heartbreak waiting to happen right there: she reels me in, I fall hard, she rips me off the hook and throws me back into the water flopping around with a hole in my chest. Not happening.

  I need to stay away from Cort Whitaker/Sellers/whatever the hell her real name is.

  Yet I can’t help but feel like an asshole when she catches me avoiding her. First her phone call, and then the look in her eyes when she runs past with what looks like a whole new dog—both unsettling. I watch her running past me and then she stops and lets Alex drink from the hose before they reach the parking lot. He looks so content with her attention that I’m jealous of the damn dog.

  You owe her an apology, my brain yells.

  Stay as far away from her as you can, my heart warns.

  One night with her and then you can move on, my dick tries to weigh in.

  I rub my hand over my face when she runs out of sight and I eventually jog the rest of the way home. I don’t like being rude, so she plagues my mind through every meeting, every viewing, every drive to the next appointment…I pick up my phone several times, tempted to text her an apology or see if she wants to grab a drink later. I manage to get through the day without caving. That night I turn on the news and watch a few minutes of Clive Carver getting arrested. Apparently the director of some of my favorite movies is a freaking pervert. I shake my head and mute the TV when my phone rings.

  I check it before I answer. “Mom, I was going to call you in a bit. How’s it going?”

  “I just wanted to call you before I go on this date. If I don’t answer a text by eleven tonight, send the police.”

  I groan. “Here’s an idea: if you don’t know them well enough to know if they’re dangerous, don’t go out with them!”

  She laughs like I’m joking; I’m not. My mom is dating again after her second divorce and she’s going through dating sites like a teenage boy goes through socks. She’s been back in Indiana for a while to be near her friends and my grandma, but we check in with each other every day. I miss her living near me, but I’m glad to not have a front row seat to all her dating drama. Hearing about it long distance is hard enough.

  “Unless it goes really well and then I’ll text you not to worry. If that happens, check on me in the morning by ten.”

  “This is way past my comfort level,” I tell her.

  She laughs again like I’m so hilarious. I’m not a funny person. I’m nice. God, I’m not even nice anymore. I need to get laid, maybe then I’ll have something resembling a sense of humor again.

  Cort’s face and the movies she’s worked on with Clive flash across the TV screen. Other actresses’ pictures are shown, but they go back to Cort and I turn the sound up.

  “Mom, can I call you back?”

  “Sure, honey. I’m leaving for my date at seven, so call back before then.”

  I hang up and turn the sound even louder, a sense of dread washing over me.

  “Oscar-winning actress Cortlyn Whitaker filed charges against Clive Carver earlier today, citing multiple instances of abuse and assault occurring over the seven years they worked together. She issued a statement that she is taking a break from acting and hopes that her privacy will be respected. We have been unable to reach Miss Whitaker for further comment. We wish her the best of luck and hope for a quick return. She will be missed. Since the news broke this afternoon, five other women have come forward…”

  Holy shit.

  I lean back and tune out as they discuss the ramifications of what this could mean for Clive Carver and the movies that were midway through production. I don’t give a fuck about him. I’m thinking about the way Cort checked all the windows and wanted to cover them all up, the way she always seems to be looking over her shoulder…now it all makes sense. What will this mean for her now that the news is out?

  I pick up my phone and for the dozenth time today, my fingers hover over her number. I toss my phone aside and start pacing. The last thing she wants right now is to hear from me. Aside from me being a complete jerk-off, she’s got to be stressed with all of this coming out. I feel like the worst kind of human—she felt comfortable around me despite all she’s been through and I blew that all to shit. I groan and it sounds loud in my empty house. God, I hope she has friends who are looking out for her.

  I don’t sleep at all that night, the guilt too much. I look up every article I can find on Clive and Cort and the more I learn, the more enraged I get. I hope that cocksucker goes to prison for life. So help me, if he gets off…

  I give up sleeping and run to the beach. I’m about an hour earlier than usual, but I’ll wait. I’m still waiting when the sun comes up and it’s time for me to go get ready for work. She never shows.

  By that afternoon, Shel is waving me toward the door. “Go home. Your antsy ass is driving me crazy today.”

  When I pass the florist that I drive by every day but have never been inside, I pull over on a whim. I buy the biggest bouquet of flowers available and grab a tiny card to go with it. There’s a lot I want to say, but I settle for simple.

 

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