Stevie’s Bucket List
(To Do Before Age 30)
1. Change someone’s life for the better.
2. Go skydiving.
3. Travel somewhere new.
4. Establish a healthy work-life balance.
5. Floss every night.
6. Organize my room and keep it clean.
7. Learn to do something new.
8. Learn to make gumbo.
9. Exercise every day.
10. Fall in love.
“She needs a hobby.” Logan points the bottom of the bottle at Bean. “Something other than herding chickens.”
Bean cocks her ear at that. She’s an intelligent dog, but she can’t possibly know the meaning of hobby. She must know the word chicken. I wouldn’t be at all surprised by that.
“Like what?” I ask.
“I could take her jogging with me,” he says.
I eye his trim, tanned legs, sun-bronzed face, and ever-present running shoes. “You don’t jog, you sprint. You’d wear her out.”
“She’d be fine. She’s young and fit.” He scratches his head. His black curls are thick and full when long, a little like a poodle’s, so he keeps them cut pretty short. “Maybe there’s a farm where you can pay for her to go herd something that actually needs herding. I’ve read about places like that.”
“That’s an idea. But it doesn’t sound close by.”
He groans. “You and driving. You should live in a city where you can take public transportation all the time.”
“Like London. I’ve never been there.”
“Pretty rainy for a Colorado girl. How about San Francisco?”
I think about it. “Too crowded.”
He snorts. “But London’s okay?”
Something I saw earlier plucks at my memory. I tug my phone out of the back pocket of my skinny jeans, where it lives most of the day, and tap on yesterday’s email from Nextdoor. It usually contains things like alerts about crime in our Park Hill, Denver neighborhood, missing pets, items for sale, and community news. A posting I’d skimmed over had caught my eye.
“This. This is perfect.” I push myself up off the floor and feel crumbs stuck on my palm. Ew. I wipe them off on my jeans and read the notice to Logan and Bean. She listens, head tilted, like she understands me.
“Join the Denver Disc Dogs club. We’re looking for a few high-flying dogs and their enthusiastic humans to join our club. We’ll help train your pup to catch frisbee discs and perform/compete with the club. Competitions are fun and affordable. All you need is a willingness to learn, an energetic, athletic dog, and an appropriate disc. Meet up with us on Wednesday nights at seven behind the Museum of Nature and Science in City Park.”
An email address for someone named Emmy is listed if more information is needed. Bean wags her tail as I finish.
“See?” I say. “She likes this idea.”
Logan shakes his head. “She likes the excitement in your voice.”
“What’s not to like? Bean’s a good jumper, she catches treats easily, and I’ll bet she’d love to train and mess around with the other dogs.” And, to top it all off, she and I can walk to City Park. No driving required. “Maybe we’ll go tomorrow night.”
“It’s worth checking out,” Logan concedes.
Bean walks over and scratches the cabinet where I keep the container of her food.
“Dinner time already?” I ask her.
“She wouldn’t let you forget, that’s for sure,” Logan says.
I pour Bean’s kibble into her bowl and refresh her water. “What about us? I can whip up a salad with the leftover chicken.”
“Shh,” Logan puts a finger to his mouth, “they’ll hear you.” He glances around furtively.
“Who?”
“Rosa’s hens.” He grins. “If they know we’re eating their kind in here, there could be an all-out revolt.”
I laugh, and he pushes me gently toward the fridge.
“I’ll make dinner. You can assist. After, all you’ve been hard at it all day.”
I yawn. “Last night, too. But you worked all day, and I know all those facts and figures have taxed your brain.” Logan’s an accountant, or as I like to call him, a bean counter. Which is how Beanie got her name.
“Eh, today wasn’t bad. And anyway, my salads are better. I put fruit in there, and those fried onion things, and nuts and stuff. I’m the salad king.”
“Then what does that make me?” I ask. Bean wags her thin tail and looks from Logan to me.
Logan tosses me a fake withering look. “The salad wench, of course. Salad wench,” he changes his voice into a command, “bring forth the lettuce and cucumbers and tomatoes from the icebox. I wish to look upon and chop all the slightly wilted produce forthwith.” He grabs a chopping knife and waves it imperiously toward the fridge.
I curtsy to him. “Yes, my liege.”
He grins. “I like it. Except I wish to be called My Lord and Salad Master.”
It’s my turn to scoff. “Don’t push your luck.”
As I walk to the refrigerator and slide my Things to Do Before I’m Thirty list back under the magnet, a familiar, uncomfortable feeling clutches at me as I recall the unwritten eleventh item.
Logan and I grew up together here in Park Hill. Back when we were six years old, we’d kissed and promised to get married someday. While on a break from college years ago, we’d had a few too many beers and renewed our vow. Then, three years ago at a mutual friend’s boozy wedding, Logan had reminded me that we were both still single, and thirty was coming soon. I’d laughed it off then, but my thirtieth birthday is in August. Logan turned thirty in May.
We haven’t talked about it again, but I know we both think about it.
He’s the kindest, most thoughtful, most loyal guy on the planet. If I were a different girl, I would have jumped on him long ago. But I’m me, Stevie Watson, a sloppy, stubborn tomboy with a semi-obsessive love for graphic design and my border collie.
Logan’s had plenty of girlfriends, but somehow, he always talks himself out of making a commitment to them. I’ve only dated a few men, and most of them annoyed the heck out of me.
So here we are in our shared kitchen, still single. We’ve got careers, friends, families, and an overly energetic dog. It’s all good. Really good. I don’t want to wreck what we have.
We’re friends. Best friends. And housemates. Period.
But as I paw through the crisper drawer for edible vegetables, I feel restless. Life is good, but I think it’s time—time to tackle the bucket list.
I won’t ever check off unwritten item eleven, but I can accomplish number seven: learn to do something new.
I’ll take Bean to the Denver Disc Dogs club.
It’s new, and it’s progress. And that’s something.
Chapter Two
Logan
I knock on Stevie’s partially open door before sticking my head into her room slash office.
“I’m headed out for a run . . .” My voice trails off as I glance around. My best friend and housemate isn’t the cleanest or most organized at the best of times, but today might mark a new record of complete disarray.