Page 6 of Sweet Twins For My Brother's Best Friend

“Shucks.” Hannah rolls her eyes but twists a small smile in her cheek. “I’ll see you soon, Chris,” she says in a quiet voice, gathering all her hair in one hand and twisting it into a spiral that shines in the light of her office windows.

“Yeah,” I murmur and walk towards the door. Lucy patters over to me and leans against the side of my leg.

“Well, hello,” I tell her and crouch down into a squat to pat her side.

Hannah smiles at the interaction. “I pat her just like that. Everyone always says it’s too hard, but I swear she loves it.”

“Of course she does.” I look Lucy in her eyes and say, “She’s tough” in the voice that people always affect when talking to animals. In response, she jumps up and licks at my face, nearly knocking me out of my precarious stance.

“Oh! Lucy, no! Sorry, she’s not really a jumper. She must really like you.”

“That’s okay. I like her, too. Hey, girl!”

I smooth her ears down and hold her face in my hands. I bring my nose to hers, and her wet snout is cold against my own nose.

“Hannah, I really am sorry about…”

Before I can apologize again for the stupid nickname, she waves her hand, visibly flinching. I tap the drawing on my thigh with a small nod. “Right, sorry.”

I shut the glass door behind me and head for my car. Halfway down the sidewalk, I turn back to look through the windows and realize that they’re mirrored.

There’s no looking in, no looking back. I look at the reflection of my own face, with its curly hair, thick brows and bumped nose. I wonder how she could see me so clearly so quickly.

Chapter Three

Hannah

Knowing that I have no other clients for the day, I lock up, Lucy trailing behind me as I double check the locks on filing cabinets, sweep the floors, and turn off the lights.

Hearing the clack of Lucy’s nails against the wood floors comforts me. It’s all so mundane, and I know it’d probably be nothing special to anyone else, but this is exactly what I’ve worked to achieve and I will never take it for granted.

Six years of higher education, first getting my Bachelors Degree and then my Masters, allows me to relish the sensation of sitting in a comfortable rolling chair in my own office, at my own desk, in my own business, as I am bathed in sunlight with my dog by my side.

I clip Lucy’s leash to her collar and try to avoid the excited tongue she laps at me as she anticipates going for a walk.

I open the front door and lock it behind us as I take her down the sidewalk to a nearby dog park. The walk is short and part of the reason I leased this particular office in the first place.

I love walking down the sidewalk in Los Angeles. It’s very robust during the daylight hours, but calms considerably after 5:00 when most businesses close for the day.

I love watching all the so-called beautiful people enjoying their lives, almost as if none of them has a job.

I’m always surprised at how many people don’t seem to be working in the middle of any given day, until I remember that I am out and about in the middle of the day, too. So who am I to judge?

Lucy walks directly beside me, her face turned to look up at me, her tongue hanging out. Sometimes I look at her face, full of love and trust, and I just can’t believe that I am lucky enough to call her my own.

I’m so sorry she went through what she did, abandoned in a dumpster as a little puppy, but I do count myself lucky that she ended up with me, coming out of what must have been a horrific situation, still willing to love and be loved.

When I found her she was wearing a collar, but it didn’t have a name or contact info. I can’t imagine how anyone could have left her there.

I open the gate to the park and sit down on a park bench as I let Lucy off her lead so that she can play and roll around in the grass.

As always, she instantly rolls around on her back from side to side, filling her fur with blades of grass and pine needles.

“Go on, girl, run!” I tell her, prodding at her side with the toe of my shoe. She untwists herself and looks at me for one moment before bursting into an erratic run that zigs and zags across the park.

I pull out a medium-sized canvas from my computer bag, a thin one I bought from a secondhand art store and painted over in white, and sketch out just the idea of a painting that I’ll get to later once Lucy has fallen asleep in her crate and I don’t have to worry about picking small, black hairs out of the paint as I go.

I cross my ankle over my knee to balance the canvas across it and draw out the landscape in front of me, paying special attention to the perspective.

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