by Ellie Cahill
“Yep.”
“Bringing a date?”
“I didn’t get a plus one,” I said. Not that I had anyone I’d bring to a wedding anyway, but it would have been nice to at least have the option. Okay, maybe it would be more accurate to say it would have been nice to have the option to pretend that the person I would have brought had a family obligation and couldn’t possibly get out of it, but of course I would have brought him any other time.
Will checked the envelope. “Me either.”
“Singles table for the win,” I said dryly.
“I swear to God, I’m going to a wedding every damn weekend this summer.”
“Me, too.”
Will came back to the couch and flopped down again before counting on his fingers. “Mike Radnor, Anna Kelly, my buddy Trent, Maddie Weiss, my brother…” he paused, thinking.
I started ticking off my own list, “Mike, Anna, Maddie, my friend Kendall, your brother, my cousin Claire…” I was proud of myself for not changing my inflection in the slightest when I mentioned James. As far as I was concerned, no one else ever needed to know about my stupid crush or the way he’d crushed it.
“It’s a god damn epidemic,” he said.
“I know.”
“You doing the bridesmaid thing for any of them?”
“No, thank god. I’m just a guest.”
“I’m standing up in my brother’s wedding.”
“Of course.” I took a sudden interest in the TV remote, carefully avoiding Will’s eyes. “I don’t know anything about his fiancée. You like her?”
Will shrugged. “Sara? She’s pretty cool.”
Of course. What had I expected him to say? ‘Sara? She’s okay I guess. Not as pretty and smart and talented as you, obviously. James should have married you.’
I forced a smile. “Cool.”
“So,” he jerked his head toward the TV, “you wanna watch the rest of this, or what?”
“Oh, uh…sure.” I hit play because I couldn’t really think of a reason not to. And that’s how I ended up watching three episodes of a documentary about a murderer with the younger brother of my childhood crush as if we hadn’t gone for years without seeing or speaking to each other. Like I hadn’t pulled a knife on him. Like he hadn’t used my shampoo (judging from the smell) in his parents’ guest bathroom without ever explaining why he looked like he’d crawled out of an open grave.
And somehow, it was kind of nice.
2
A Little Dog Music
It was after ten when we finished the third episode of the documentary. That’s when the streaming service got judgey and asked if we were still watching. I appreciate a certain level of electronic assistance, but you’re not my mom, TV.
Will slapped his hands on his thighs and got slowly to his feet. “I should get some sleep.”
“Right.” I glanced at my wrist, even though I don’t wear a watch. “Probably a good idea.” I wanted to ask him a hundred questions. Why had he come here? Why had he been so dirty? Why didn’t he go home to shower? Why had he sat down and watched TV with me for the last three hours? But instead I got up and headed for the back door where Estelle and Getty’s leashes hung on a hook.
“I’m gonna take the dogs out for the last time, but I’ll wait until you pull out.”
Will stretched his arms over his head with a huge yawn, exposing a strip of skin where his t-shirt pulled up. “Nah, take ‘em. I’ll crash here tonight.”
My jaw worked, but no sound came out. He couldn’t stay here. I was staying here. I was getting paid to stay here. Also, if he was going to stay here, why was I the one taking the dogs out?
He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a glass from a cabinet to fill at the water dispenser in the fridge door. The bichons followed him, standing at his feet and gazing up expectantly while the water streamed into the glass.
I blinked at Will a few times, waiting for any kind of explanation, but he said nothing. Finally I patted my leg and called the dogs over. They obeyed, and sat patiently while I bent to clip their leashes on. I had my hand on the back door to take them into the yard when Will spoke.
“I’ll probably be gone before you get up.”
“Um…okay.”
He took a drink of his water, giving me a suspicious once-over. “I don’t need to lock the knives in my room with me, do I?”
“I’m not promising anything. No one’s making you stay.”
Will’s face lit up, hazel eyes twinkling. “That’ll make the night exciting.”
Getty yapped impatiently. The dogs couldn’t understand why I’d suited them up for outside only to stand near the door. “Okay, okay,” I muttered, opening the door.
“Sleep well, Hadley Bradley,” Will called after me as I stepped into the dark back yard.
I’d learned a long time ago that it was never the dogs that were the problem in my line of work, it was always the people. But I’d never had this particular people problem before. Especially when I was dog-sitting. I was supposed to be alone, making all the decisions and not being judged by dogs. That is the best part about being a dog-sitter. Dogs love you no matter what kind of muppets are on your pajamas, or how much cookie dough you eat.
A square of light appeared in the middle of the backyard, and I glanced up to the source. Will had turned on a light in one of the rooms on the second floor. There was no sign of him at the window, but it had to be him.
Which was more unsettling? The spooky, empty houses noises I lived with whenever I dog-sat? Or the unpredictable movement of Will Brady roaming through the house?
Getty tugged hard on her leash, overbalancing me. It took me two steps to compensate. So embarrassing that a 15-pound dog could take me off my feet. From my new vantage point, I could see the large, square shape of a vehicle in the driveway. My curiosity piqued, I took a few more steps toward the drive to get a better look.
It was an RV. Not a huge one, though its bulk certainly dwarfed my Kia Rio. It was pretty old, by the look of it, and not the cool, vintage-y kind of old. Just old-old. It had to be Will’s. What the hell?
I glanced up at the lighted window on the second floor again, contemplating a short jog upstairs to question him. Was he living in an RV? It would help explain why he showed up at his parents’ house to use the shower. The thing might have had a bathroom, but without a water source, how much of a shower could he possibly get?
Maybe it wasn’t an RV at all. Maybe he used it for…whatever his job was. The Bradys owned a construction company, and Will had been wearing a Brady Construction t-shirt when I first saw him. Still, I’d known the Bradys practically my whole life and Mr. Brady rarely came home looking like he’d been dragged behind a truck through a swamp.
Getty and Estelle finished their business and tugged their leashes in the direction of the house. Absently, I let them inside and locked the back door, double- and triple-checking that I’d secured the deadbolt. My number one rule for sleeping in strange houses as often as I did was to make sure I was locked up tightly inside at night. I wasn’t going to make it easy for any serial killers to get in and make me victim number nine.
To that end, I made a quick circuit of the lower level, making sure the windows were closed and latched. Even though it was part of my safety-check routine, it never failed to make me feel unsafe moving past all the windows. In that way, it was kind of nice to have Will in the house.
Maybe I should leave a sticky note on his bedroom door saying ‘Dear Killers, Start here.’ Just to make sure I’d have time to escape. The idea put a smile on my face as I climbed to the second floor.
There was a thin line of light under the door next to the guest room where I was staying. It must be Will’s room. Right next door. Great. Why miss an opportunity to be as self-conscious as humanly possible?
I tried to make as little noise as I could while I got ready for bed, which was nearly impossible when I got into the bathroom. Not only was there a wet towel on the floor, there was a puddle of wate
r on the counter and little bits of tooth paste foam stuck to the sink bowl. Disgusting. The Bradys weren’t paying me enough to share a bathroom with their son.
On my way to the guest bedroom, I made a horrible face at Will’s bedroom door. It was immature, but satisfying. The line of light was no longer visible under the door, but I could hear the faint sounds of voices. He was listening to or watching something.
Well, good. Then I wouldn’t disturb him with my own night time listening. Though I was still going to keep things as quiet as possible. Because, frankly, I’d done enough in my life to embarrass myself in front of Will Brady. He did not need to know my bedtime secret.
After a quick check to make sure the bedroom windows hadn’t spontaneously unlocked themselves since the last time I checked, I slid into bed and turned off the lights. The light of my phone was all I needed now. I tapped into YouTube and found my favorite playlist: “8 Hours of Soothing Bedtime Music for Dogs.”
Look, all I can say is don’t knock it ’til you’ve tried it. I started playing it for some of my canine clients who couldn’t settle down with their owners gone. And I discovered that it put me to sleep, too. No one said it wouldn’t work on humans, right? And believe me, it works on humans.
I set the sleep timer and put my phone on the nightstand, letting the calming, new-age tones flow into my ears. Normally, this worked in a matter of minutes. I don’t know what kind of dogs could possible stay tense through an entire 8 hours. Most of my furry clients end up crashed on the floor, eyes closed and dreaming doggy dreams. I didn’t even know what the music sounded like after 15 minutes, because I was always out cold.
Tonight, though, it took longer than usual to take effect. Every time Will made a sound in his room, my eyes popped open. I found myself fixating on where his bed was in relationship to the wall mine was pressed against. What if his was on the opposite side of the wall and our heads were less than two feet apart? What if he was close enough that he could hear my new-age dog music through the wall? Maybe I should turn it down even further. Maybe I should find my headphones.
Ugh, no, I hated falling asleep with headphones. I’d have sore ears in the morning.
Besides, I was not going to let stupid Will Brady make me feel like I didn’t have the right to fall asleep any way I pleased. And even if he could hear the music, he’d have no reason to know it was supposed to be for dogs.
By then my eyelids were drooping and my entire body felt heavy. Dog music strikes again.
3
The Dog Days Are Never Over
As promised, Will was gone by the time I got up. I don’t know how I’d managed to sleep through his departure, considering my general fear of being snuck up on in strange houses. But he was definitely out of the house. And the big RV was gone from the driveway. I had to admire his stealth. If he wanted to consider a life of crime, he’d probably be pretty great at it.
Estelle and Getty were thrilled to see me—a major perk of the job—especially once I put their breakfast kibble down. There weren’t going to be as fond of the next part of my agenda for the day, but they’d survive.
While the dogs ate, I double-checked my client list for the day. It was my light day in my home neighborhood of Round Rock, with only five dogs to walk, including Estelle and Getty. They’d get the first walk of the day, then it was on to the next neighborhood in West Lake Hills, where I had six more dogs waiting for me. Then to Tarrytown for three more dogs. In the afternoon, I had a dog transport job. Then it was back to the Bradys for the night, to stay with Estelle and Getty.
I ate a quick breakfast and got the dogs and myself suited up for our walk. They looked considerably less stupid than me, because they didn’t have to wear a fanny pack. But a dog walker’s survival kit just doesn’t fit in a pocket. I prefer to think of it as my utility belt—a pouch to hold treats, a dog waste dispenser with back-up refill rolls, a spray can of pepper spray (never used, thank god), a whistle, a training clicker, a spare leash and harness, a stack of report cards and three pens, and the six pedometers I use to track each dog’s distance.
In other words, I look like a huge dork. But I am a damn good dog walker.
I clipped on Estelle and Getty’s leashes and we set out in the cool, damp morning. I gave the bichons a tug to get them in line—they liked to pretend there weren’t rules for walking with Hadley, but there are: stay to the left unless I tell you otherwise, don’t pull, and no chasing squirrels. The girls remembered quickly and soon we were arriving at the Hendershot house to collect a beagle named Snoopy (so original, I know). I hit reset on pedometer #2 to start tracking Snoopy, got him in line with the bichons, and we were off. It was the same routine at the Reiner house, where I added their Australian cattle dog, Boney-Maroney to the crew. A reset on pedometer #3, and we moved on to collect the Quincy’s golden retriever, Bella.
With five dogs, I definitely had my hands full as we followed my favorite route through the neighborhood. The dogs knew the route as well as I did after doing the same path for weeks. It was nice to have us all on autopilot, where all I had to do was look out for surprises, like a roofing crew working around the corner, or an unexpected solo dog walker. There is nothing more tempting for a dog than a group of other dogs coming toward them. That’s when I’m really grateful that my crew is a mix of big and small dogs. Nothing can take you off your feet faster than an excited pack of large dogs.
I finished the route and began the process of dropping off the dogs. That was the harder part, as I had to keep control of the remaining crew while filling out the report card with how far each dog walked, whether or not they pooped and peed, and their general state of “Good dog!” Because they’re all good dogs.
Poor Estelle and Getty got stuck with the longest walks of all since I had them with me from beginning to end. Their little pink tongues were hanging all the way out by the time we got home. They were ready to drink several bowls of water.
I was too, although I preferred mine in a bottle. One walk down, two to go. I looked at my own pedometer and saw that I’d already logged 6,000 steps for the day. I never have a problem reaching my 10,000 steps these days. In fact, I usually destroy that goal.
As I refilled my water bottle for the second time, I caught sight of a small piece of paper at the far end of the counter. I didn’t remember it being there the night before.
Hadley Bradley,
It was nice to see you last night.
- Will
If it weren’t for the Hadley Bradley part, it would almost have been a nice surprise. As it was, I crumpled it in my fist and threw it in the garbage. At least he was gone. I only had a two more nights in the Brady house, and then I could go back to just being their dog walker.
After making sure Estelle and Getty were settled, I drove to the next neighborhood. This one was the fanciest of the areas I worked. The houses were gigantic, with huge yards. Some had service entrances. Most of them had given me my own four- or six-digit code to get in to the back door or garage. These were very particular clients. They wanted to make sure their dogs got the right amount of exercise, and all the attention they didn’t have time to give. They were the reason I’d developed my report cards. And the most common reason I rolled my eyes behind my clients’ backs sometimes. But they also paid well. Especially the Ramseys, who lived at the first house I visited.
They wanted their Welsh corgi, Kitten, to be walked alone. Even though I also walked the dog next door. Even though Kitten was a sweetheart who got along just fine with other dogs. They wanted Kitten to be a solo walk, and they were willing to pay double for the privilege.
So I walked Kitten and left her report card, before I gathered Cooper, The Beast, K.C., Han, and Leia, from my four other clients’ houses and we took our walk. Since these were mostly large dogs, I liked to take them to the park in he neighborhood and let them roam around a bit. I threw tennis balls for K.C. and Cooper, who were a black lab and a golden retriever. But the other three were just content to lounge. Espe
cially The Beast, who was by far the most terrifying dog I’d ever seen. He was an Irish Wolfhound/Newfoundland mix, and he was nearly 200 pounds. His fur was black, but had a wolfhound texture with clumps that stood out, making him look like he’d just crawled under a junkyard fence. He was also the sweetest, gentlest dog in the universe and he truly believed he was meant to be a lapdog. So when I sat on the park bench, he immediately hauled his front paws onto my lap and slung himself across me, panting. It was like being covered in a heavy, itchy blanket, but The Beast didn’t care. I petted him and told him I loved him but it was really time to get down now. The Beast took his time obeying, but eventually I was free.
It was the same routine in the third neighborhood, although no one was as specific about their dog as the Ramseys were about Kitten. By the end of my third walk, I was already at 15,000 steps for the day.
I had time to squeeze in a late lunch before I had to pick up a sweet little terrier mutt named Black Tea and run him to the groomer. The groomer gave me a pick-up time, which left me just enough time to run to two houses where I was only doing drop-in care for a few small animals. In the first house, I fed the fish in all three of their huge tanks, happy to find none of the delicate salt water fish had croaked on my watch. In the second house, I fed Generalissimo, the red-cheeked conure, who squawked and fussed at me the whole time. He was theoretically a social bird who liked to sit on people’s shoulders, but in the three times I’d been in to feed him, he seemed about as social as a cornered wasp. Generalissimo nipped at me while I poured him fresh water.
“Fine, then,” I told him. “Be by yourself. See if I care.”
I left a report card for the fiesty bird and happily chucked my keys through the mail slot. Generalissimo’s owners were home this evening, and I wouldn’t have to be responsible for him anymore.
“So there!” I said to the closed front door.
