Page 53 of Hound Dog
“Not bad, huh?”
He knew it wasn’t bad. He didn’t need me to say it.
Unfortunately for both of us, I was extremely competitive, and I wasn’t sure I could handle losing. Even something as inconsequential as a stupid guacamole contest with a guy that I most definitely hated and didn’t atallwant to kiss.
Nope.
Not even a little.
Freckles sat by Finn’s feet, tail wagging and looking up at him with big, brown eyes.
“Freckles!” I cried, in a happy change of subject. “You little traitor!”
Finn’s disarming grin widened. “She’s been at my side all morning. Haven’t you noticed?”
I would have been insulted by my dog’s obvious act of betrayal if I hadn’t been so shocked. She jumped onto her hind legs and balanced her paws on Finn’s legs as he bent and scratched beneath her chin.
“But… but shehatesmen. She’s known Ben for years and he still can’t hold her without her growling.” Hell, it was only recently that she allowed him topether.
“Maybe he’s just not a dog person.”
Well, that was the understatement of the year. He wasn’t just not a dog person… he wasn’t a cat person. A hedgehog person. Hell, he wasn’t even a fish person. We had to watch his nephew’s beta fish for a week when his brother took the family to Disney, and he ended up almost killing the poor thing.
I shook the thoughts from my fogged mind and pointed my finger into Finn’s face. “Don’t let her lick your fingers. Onions are bad for dogs.”
He nodded and rushed to the sink to wash his hands. “Good point.”
He didn’t roll his eyes or fight me like Ben would have.
I smoothed my hand over my messy bun and paused, remembering what Maisie had said. It’s sweatpants and zit cream from now on. Maybe she was onto something with that.
If I looked and felt like a slob, I was way less likely to do or say something stupid.
And he was way less likely to make a move if I looked like some sort of deranged mutant who’d let squirrels style my hair.
There was another long stretch of silence, but unlike the other times, this one wasn’t uncomfortable. Or unwelcome. It was kind of peaceful. And in a house with fourteen dogs—well, thirteen now—peace wasn’t something I was used to.
Finn finally broke the silence with a non sequitur that had me reeling. “Are you really not going to tell me about your mom’s bucket list? I’ve wondered for six years.”
I blinked, surprised. “What do you mean you’ve ‘wondered’ for six years?”
“Every time I saw Meryl, I wondered how much you had checked off and when. Where you were, what you were doing. And if you were living the life your mom…” his voice faded.
“My mom never got to?”
He nodded and was aware enough to look embarrassed. Then with a sigh, he said, “Let me try that again. I was so inspired by you then, I created my own bucket list. In honor of your mom.” He paused and chuckled. “A woman whose name I never even learned became a huge influence on how I lived my life these past six years. How sad is that?”
I smiled. “It’s not sad at all. Mom would have loved that.” I moved next to him, sliding the faucet toward myself and took my turn washing my hands. “Sharon. Sharon AnneMarie Rogers was her name.”
He reached around to his back pocket and unfolded a leather wallet. From within, he pulled out a folded sheet of paper and held it out to me.
I took it, gingerly unfolding it so that it didn’t tear. It was already worn out, delicate at the fold lines and torn in a couple places. “This is your list?”
“The start of it.” He shrugged with a boyish smile. “But something tells me we need to find a better way to document these lists. Shitty notebook paper doesn’t hold up well to our wallets.”
That was the damn truth. My mom’s list looked even rougher than this. Someday, when I’d checked everything off, I wanted to frame it. I wanted to show my children the list that the grandmother they’d never meet had created… and I’d finished.
I scanned his list, noting that even though some things were checked off, a lot hadn’t been yet. At the bottom, in his blocky handwriting, it read: Make love on top of the mill beneath the stars.
