It turns out I didn’t have a clue.
And maybe I still don’t.
It doesn’t keep me from believing in it any less though.
For now, I just want to put the past behind me and forget Jason Whitlock ever happened.
Rising from my desk, I stretch my arms over my head, do a few squats, and refill my water bottle in the kitchen. Swiping my keys off the counter, I run out to grab the mail from the cluster of mailboxes outside.
Ida Moss’s blue hydrangeas are in full bloom and her heavy-headed pink peonies nod in the agreeable June breeze. If my nose were in working order, I’d be able to smell their sweet fragrance. For now, I’ll just appreciate their beauty.
A minute later, I grab the stack of mail from my box and head back into my apartment—the top half of a 19th century Victorian someone turned into a charming four-plex decades ago. Rifling through the various envelopes, mailers, magazines, and fliers, I stop when I get to a bill from my law firm.
It turns out it doesn’t matter how long you were married—divorces can be as messy and expensive just the same.
Last I heard, Jason’s seeking fifty percent of the royalties I’d earned while we were married. If it were chump change, I’d cough it up just to get him to sign the papers. But we’re talking a comfortable six-figure sum. He’s also gunning for alimony, given the disparity of our incomes, but my lawyer says he doesn’t stand a chance. We weren’t married long enough for him to grow comfortable with any sort of cushy lifestyle. We hadn’t even had time to buy a house—thank goodness.
“Jovie, hi,” Ida steps out onto her front porch, her spotted rescue pooch Domino pulling on his leash and wagging his tail as he tries to drag her closer to me. They make their way down the steps and across the lush green yard that separates her house from my place. “Do you have a quick second?”
“Sure. What’s up?” I keep a careful distance, so as not to infect her with whatever nasty virus is coursing through my veins at the moment.
She pushes her gray curls back with her red-rimmed glasses, using them as makeshift headband.
“I need to fly home to Chicago for a few weeks,” she says. “My sister’s husband just passed away and I need to be there to help her sort through everything. She’s a bit of a mess. Anyway, I’ve been calling every kennel in Portland all day and no one has room for Domino for a three-week stay. Damn tourist season.”
She rolls her eyes, and I get it. In the off-season, our city’s population rests at a comfortable sixty to seventy thousand people. In the summertime, it can swell upwards of two million.
“I hate to put you out,” she says, “but is there any way you could watch him? I’d pay you.”
Her soft hazel eyes plead with mine, and Domino sits like the sweet boy he is, tail wagging with hope.
I had a dog when I was a kid, so I’m not a stranger to the basics of this sort of thing. And it probably wouldn’t kill me to have an excuse to go for a walk a couple times a day.
“Um, yeah. I can watch him,” I say.
Ida winces. “And it would need to be at your place. I’m having some remodeling done, and I’m afraid it would be terribly noisy and dusty for you … a little stressful for him.”
“Sure,” I say. “He can stay with me.”
“Are you absolutely positive?” She steps closer, her hand splayed across her chest. “I really don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s no problem at all. I could use the company anyway.”
“Oh, thank heavens, Jovie. You’re a lifesaver. Truly.” She does a happy dance before shortening Domino’s leash. “I’m going to get him packed and then I’ll bring him by in the next couple of hours if that’s okay? My flight leaves this afternoon.”
“Sounds good.”
Ida heads inside with Domino in tow and I return to my desk, hoping to get a couple chapters done before welcoming my furry houseguest.
One chapter later, I take a standing break, cracking my knuckles and massaging the stiffness from my neck. Before I dive back into my story—a historical arranged marriage romance about a headstrong duke and his female cousins’ sassy best friend—I check my Facebook account. The old saying that writers will do anything to avoid writing is unfortunately true, especially as of late.
I clear out the twelve messages from this morning, each and every one of them asking me about the mysterious tag on Jude and Stassi’s photo. When I get to the bottom of my inbox, I find the one I sent to Stone earlier. It shows as read. No response. I give it a re-read, suddenly wondering if I was too harsh.