Page 21 of Deep Gap

“You can’t say for sure that’s what you did. And maybe it’s forgivable since you’ve probably already done something bigger that helps her make a change. Hell, however it winds up with Greer, giving someone who needs a second chance a safe place to land is commendable.”

I’m a guy and he’s right about that last part even if I’m not thrilled to take credit for it. So I whatever my oldest friend and follow that up with “Gotta go.”

Work is closed through New Year’s Day, but I’ve got two active dogs to let out who are used to galloping at full speed in the wide space at the training center. They’re being treated to Brighton’s finest dog park today.

As I pull on my jacket Kimber stops to hug me before going around the bar.

“Thanks for delivering the soaps. They smell divine!” She pats my chest in a reassuring manner. “If you want dinner tomorrow there’s a seat reserved at the table for you.”

“You’re welcome. And thanks. I’ll consider it.” I ought to accept on the spot, but don’t. Spending the holiday barricaded at home with my mutts holds a certain appeal.

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10

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Nowadays, I’m totally sitting on the bed watching the living room TV when Byron gets home from work. I’ve felt like an interloper since getting back from my holiday with my mom and dad. I’ve fed myself sandwiches and been too busy to sit on the couch for a movie or hang out with Byron. Mostly because I push my chores off until the evenings so that there’s no confusing the issue. Byron’s not interested in me staying.

He offered me this room until I found something bett… er, uh… suitable for an ex-con. If I were a guy, not getting involved with anyone who’d killed her first hope of a committed relationship would be sort of a no-brainer too.

Not that a single kiss leads to walking down the aisle. I have more than enough experience with kisses leading in the opposite direction.

Unlike most weekdays, my hands are occupied and I can’t flick the remote or casually close the bedroom door before the front door opens. The twisting motion has nothing to do with what they’ve done more times than I’m proud to admit the few nights Byron has cornered me to talk about the new batch of vets and dogs at the training center, or what’s left the fridge, or thanking me for bleaching the tub grout in the hall bathroom. Or even wanting to discuss Jovie’s reaction to Tallulah’s adoption day, which for a dog used to having a companion has been what I’d figure a stint in solitary confinement is for a human.

Jovie trots into my room. She looks around longingly. Circling twice, she settles where Tallulah’s dog bed had been, right on top of my current project, and sighs.

Poor girl. She is sure she’s going to come back home at the end of the day and miraculously find her best friend here. I know exactly what that’s like.

I finish the last stitch in the row, put my crochet hook down, and slide off the bed to sit next to her. Jovie’s ears are silky soft. She shimmies toward me, asking for a belly rub, and a little bit of closeness.

“Jov, where did you… Oh.” Byron stalls in the threshold. He raises a brow. “What’s she laying on?”

“A bedroll.”

“Smart. But I thought we discussed sleeping on the floor already?” Byron lowers himself to the plush carpet. Using the bed frame to brace his back, he tents his knees.

“Har-har. It’s not for me. You can make sleeping mats by crocheting plastic bags together.”

“Why would anyone ever do that?” He fiddles with the long line of plarn—plastic that it took me all of last week to cut and knot together to make yarn.

“That piece is for the handle. I found out when I was at my parents’ that shelters provide the mats to the homeless. There are actually a lot of homeless vets who live on the side of Brighton where I used to.” I leave out that Byron is a vet, hoping he’s smart enough to piece that bit of information together on his own.

“Why are you doing it?” he asks, sounding skeptical.

“What else am I going to do?” I worry my lip. “Although, it takes a lot more bags than I counted on. I need about a hundred more for the ties and by then I’ll have only made one mat out of over five hundred grocery sacks.”

I’ve been petting Jovie, who is in desperate need of a friend, not paying much attention to Byron because he’s not mine. Not really. The room grows quiet. There’s an ambulance chaser advertising on the television in the background. I hate enduring lawyer commercials with their stupid flashing police lights and melodramatic pounding gavels. The constant negative reminder is the worst part of trying to escape into the TV set.

I look up and Byron’s regarding me with a thoughtful expression. “Between the soaps as gifts, the way you run around at work, and keeping this place vacuumed, I don’t think you spend enough time thinking about the things that make you happy.”

“Soap makes me happy.” I shrug. I mean bees and all the things I can make from bee byproducts.

Byron gets to his feet and leaves the room. I release a breath that’s as long and miserable as Jovie’s sigh when she understood Tallulah still wasn’t in here. I wonder how long it will be before she gives up on looking for Tallulah in my room. If I were a dog, I wouldn’t have lasted this long, but that’s because I’ve had other experiences. I’m about to go back to crocheting when Byron jogs back, holding a small box of gloss.

“This is for you.”

I reach out, shaking my head in confusion. Byron bought me a gift. We’d expressly agreed on no Christmas presents. But it’s mid-January and… my stomach flip-flops the way it does when we’ve accidentally brushed by each other. Or Byron’s talking to me. Or when I think of him and what I’ve done thinking about him in my bed.

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