They don’t.
“Bean is Stevie’s dog, right?” Emmy asks. A second passes before I realize she’s talking to me.
I turn away from Stevie and Jude. “That’s right. She got her as a puppy, but because we live together, we sort of share her.”
“That’s cool of you to come out and learn the disc thing with her, then,” Aaron says. “My housemate can’t even fill Bear’s water bowl, much less throw a frisbee for him.”
I smile, accepting the compliment, but my eyes sneak back to Stevie. Did she hear that? Because I don’t have to be here, supporting her and Bean.
The problem is, I don’t want to be anywhere else, either. Wherever Stevie is, is where I want to be.
I only wish she felt the same way.
Chapter Seven
Stevie
“Are you busy tonight?” I yell to Logan through his closed bathroom door. It’s Saturday, early evening, and he’s showering after his run. I can’t see him, obviously, but I hear the water crashing against the shower walls.
“What?” he shouts back. I yell my question again. “No!”
“Want to go to Mom and Lamar’s with me?”
“Dinner?” I think he said something else, but I’m not sure.
“Yes!”
“Okay!”
And that’s how, about an hour later as the sun sets over City Park to the west, we end up walking together to my parents’ home. They live about a fifteen-minute walk away, and if I’m anticipating having a drink, I stroll instead of driving. Instead of Logan driving, that is.
We could bike instead, but Bean’s with us. She jogs a bit ahead, at the end of her leash, looking pretty happy. I’d given her a bath today, and unlike a lot of dogs, she loves being clean and brushed. Of course, I’d fed her plenty of treats out of her disc too. She’s enjoying her disc “training” very much.
Logan’s stomach snarls beside me. I laugh. “Hungry?”
“No, I’m good,” Logan says, then after a pause, he adds, “So, what’s Lamar making tonight?”
He knows my Mom doesn’t cook. Or at least, not since she met Lamar. My stepfather is a foodie and a talented home chef. He’s also a crack Trivial Pursuit player, a savvy investor, and a snappy dresser. But I’d say cooking is his superpower.
“I don’t know. He didn’t say.” I hide my grin. I’m keeping the meal a secret until we get there.
“What did you do today?” Logan asks. “Other than giving Bean a spa treatment.”
“I took Jazzy to see the new Disney princess movie, which thank god wasn’t awful, and I hung out with Mom and Lamar for a few hours after that. Oh, and this morning, Bean and I threw the disc around at the park with Jude, Emmy, and Meadow.”
Logan eyes me. “Really? They happened to be there at the same time?”
I snort. “No, of course not. They invited Bean and me to train with them and Meadow.”
“You but not me, huh?”
I glance over. My friend looks . . . hurt? “Did you want to go? You totally could have. I’m sorry I didn’t ask you. You were gone, but I should have texted.”
“No, it’s fine. I was joking.”
He doesn’t sound like he’s joking. Genuinely confused, I peep at him again to try and read his expression. As I do, I step into the cross-street in front of us, and with a swift grab at my arm, Logan pulls me back. I yelp and yank Bean out of the street as the Toyota I didn’t see heading our way goes by.
Logan sighs. “Stevie, I hate to have to say this, but you should really look both ways before crossing the street.”
I agree, when I can finally breathe again. He’s right, and it’s not the only thing I should do. I should floss more, clean the house more, work during the day and sleep at night more, and dress and act more like an adult. My brain doesn’t seem to follow the same pathways as most people. But I don’t say all of that.
I lay my hand on Logan’s arm instead. “Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.” He wraps my fingers around his bicep and adds jokingly, “Now hold my hand while we cross the street.”
A feather runs up my own arm, or at least that’s what it feels like, but I ignore the old, familiar sensation that I get when Logan touches me. I ignore it because he’s my oldest, best, and occasionally solitary friend. And nothing else.
Mom and Lamar’s home in South Park Hill is a gorgeous two-story brick Denver square on an oversized lot with beautiful, lush landscaping. The house is perfectly maintained, and the yard could be the green of a fancy golf course. I ring the doorbell. No one answers, but music drifts from the fenced back yard, so we head around back.
Their yard is my favorite part of the home. It’s wide and deep with a circular stone patio, a built-in fireplace and grill, and several shade trees, one with a long rope swing for Jazzy and another with a hammock. I’d spent many a happy afternoon in that hammock napping, reading, or borrowing their Netflix back when I couldn’t afford my own account.
Mom reclines on a lounger on the patio, talking on the phone. She waves at us excitedly and gestures toward the open French doors at the back of the house. I pull a bottle of wine from my backpack and wave it at Mom with a questioning look. She points to her already full glass of red. I give her a thumbs up.
Logan makes a noise. “Ah ha. There is a secret language between mothers and daughters. I think I read an article about it in Popular Science.”
I snort. “More likely you saw us in Wine Enthusiast.” I poke my head in the doorway. A delicious, seafoody scent wafts to my nostrils. “Lamar?”
A deep voice rumbles from the kitchen. “C’mon in.”
I take Bean off her leash to go sniff around the yard, knowing Mom will keep an eye on her, and step inside, inhaling deeply. Lamar, his waist wrapped in an apron, stirs an enormous pot on the cooktop. Inside, the thick, bubbling stew is a lovely fiery color. Bits of shredded chicken, shrimp, and vegetables like celery, onion, and peppers breach the surface as he stirs. I hug my stepfather, relishing his bear-like embrace. He’s always given the greatest hugs.
“Hello there, co-conspirator,” he says.
“Mmm,” Logan breathes in appreciatively. He peeks in the pot, too. “What is this deliciousness?”
I turn to him, grinning. “Traditional gumbo, straight from Grandma Celia’s kitchen. Secret ingredients and all. And I made it.”
Logan freezes for a second, then smiles. “Number eight on the bucket list: check.”
“Yep. With some help.” I squeeze Lamar’s side before letting him go.
“She did all the hard work.” He pats my back. “Made the roux, chopped, measured, stirred, and mixed.”
Logan smirks. “And . . . is it edible?”
My stepfather glowers at him. “Of course it’s edible. No inedible food is prepared in this kitchen, son.”
They’re both joking. Well, not Lamar so much. But definitely Logan. My friend hugs my stepfather after I let him go. Logan’s about six inches taller than Lamar, but they’ve always seemed to see eye to eye, nonetheless.