Finley and the Foster Brother:
I can’t say the same for everyone else in my life, but Roscoe is always overjoyed to see me.
Today when I show up, he’s waiting for me with his nose pressed against the window, paws flat against the glass, and tail wagging.
“Hey, buddy,” I say through the glass as I insert the key into the MacMahon’s back door. This one is always a struggle; the latch catches. I lift my shoulder and slam it into the wood. The lock releases, sending the door flying open, and Roscoe the Great Dane rushes at me, knocking me down the stairs and onto my back.
“Ugh, Roscoe,” I mumble, accepting his slobbery kisses. He won’t stop until he’s content that he’s smelled the other six dogs I’ve walked today. Finally, having had enough, I push him away. “Dude, give me a little space.”
He moves down to my feet, which gives me a chance to stand. “Come on,” I tell him, brushing the leaves off my backside and going into the massive house. I’ve never seen much of the inside, just the back entry and the amazing kitchen. A few times there’s been food left on the table--leftovers, really--and they’re fresh and I’m hungry, but I don’t do anything. The job is too important.
The best view is from the yard anyway—a direct view of the Pacific. Everything I need is just inside the door; including Roscoe’s leash, ball, and the roll of plastic doggie bags. I ignore the bowl of fruit on the counter, along with the way my stomach rumbles, and hook the leash to the collar and stand, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror by the door.
“Good grief,” I mutter, raking my fingers through my long brown hair to remove the clump of leaves hanging from the side. My cheeks are pink from the wind, but otherwise my skin is brown from so much time on the beach. I don’t get outside much, other than the dog walks—but I’ve build up enough customers to keep me out of the house most of the day. Even though I’m slim, I’m tall for a sixteen-year-old, which is why the MacMahons trusted me to manage Roscoe. Plus, the references I showed them from the other families I work with around the Ocean Grove community helped secure this job.
I wrangle Roscoe (or does he wrangle me?) and I head down to the beach to take him on his walk.
School started back a month ago, which makes the beach a lot emptier at this time of day than during the summer. I’d totally planned to go back at the beginning of the semester to Ocean Grove High, but then…I just didn’t. I had my little business, which brought in money me and mom needed, and the families still wanted me to watch their animals and, well, it’s not like my mom noticed. I told my customers I was being homeschooled this year and had time to continue working. Since these are rich, privileged people who just want solutions and few details, they bought it, hook, line, and sinker.
“Hey, slow down,” I tell him, tying to keep my arm in the socket. Roscoe is sweet, but rambunctious, and when we get to the sand, I unhook his leash and let him run free. One the best things about Ocean Grove is the dog-friendly beaches. I think people here like dogs more than other people. I think I agree. I wait as he checks out the water then comes back. I know what he wants.
Roscoe isn’t very good at fetch but he loves to chase his red ball in the waves. Once we’re in a clear spot, I pick up the ball and toss it in. He gallops after it on his long, gangly legs.
The dog isn’t the only one that loves the beach. I do, too. There’s something calming about the rolling water. I’ve lived in the little town of Ocean Grove my whole life. My family has for generations, even though it’s just me and my mom left. Honestly, that connection is the only reason we’ve been able to stay. Even when my mother was forced to sell the house she grew up in, she worked out a deal for us to live in the guest house. But even now, I’m worried about that. More than once, the electricity has been shut off. The water disconnected. My mom…she’s just not able to keep up with it all right now.
A jogger comes up on my left and I step out of his way, throwing the ball back toward the choppy water. Roscoe leaps over the small waves at the edge and wades in.
“Thanks,” the jogger says, passing in a waft of heaving breath and soapy detergent.
“Sure.”
He continues on and I call out, “Roscoe! Get the ball! Let’s go!”
The dog lifts his massive head, small red ball protruding from his mouth, and glances up at me. He turns my way and gallops out of the water but instead of returning, he shifts gears and races down the beach.
“Oh no.” I run after him. “Roscoe! No!”
He doesn’t stop, instead moving as fast as he can down the sand. I chase behind him, eyes widening as the scene before me unfolds. Roscoe doesn’t just run away from me—he runs toward something; the jogger, ramming into him and knocking him to the ground. Then the worst thing happens. I trip over a divot in the sand and stumble forward, landing on top of both the dog and the boy.
“Roscoe!” I shout, trying to untangle myself. “I’m so sorry. He’s friendly. I promise.” The guy is bewildered, and who wouldn’t be with a girl and a massive dog on top of him? Roscoe isn’t the slightest bit aggressive, instead slobbering affection all over the poor guy.
Poor guy may be a misstatement.
Of course, it’s not just a guy I’ve landed on. And as I quickly separate myself from Roscoe and the jogger, it’s clear that this guy is good-looking. Too good-looking, with that kind of chiseled face you only see in magazines or superhero movies. His chest—which I’d been pressed against—is hard. His biceps round and bulging. I’m horrified, but when I get my footing, Mr. Handsome is happily petting the giant dog, giving him a wide, adorable smile. I snap the leash on him while he’s distracted and continue my apologies. “I’m sorry. I can’t believe he took off like that. It never happens.”
Pleasedon’ttellmyboss
“No worries,” he says, holding Roscoe’s huge face. “He’s a handsome dog.”
You’re a handsome boy. I hold my tongue and wrangle Roscoe back. “Yeah, he’s something.” I watch as he hops to his feet, dusting sand off his arms and legs. “Did you cover yourself in bacon this morning or something?”
He turns that mega-watt smile on me and my knees almost buckle. “It’s my new cologne. Eu de Ham.”
Cute and funny. Stop. He’s also wearing a five-hundred-dollar exercise watch, top of the line sneakers and has a hundred-dollar haircut. He’s one of those Ocean Grove people. The ones from the gated side of the beach.
“Well, I’ll let you get back to your run. Sorry again.”
“Seriously, it’s no problem. I needed a little excitement today.” He rubs Roscoe on the head once more and gives me a quick grin before heading in the direction he’d been going before.
I drag Roscoe back the other way, feeling a little off kilter from that meeting. The last thing I need is the MacMahons to know that happened—it looks irresponsible and I need the money, but the guy seemed nice and hopefully it’ll just be a blip in his day.
I know it will be for me.
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