The Conundrum of Collies (Love & Pets #6) - A.G. Henley Page 0,23

giggling friends.

“Me, too. Gaming, not running. I only run when chased.” Aaron makes a face and then pets Bear’s head when he pops up under the table to scratch an itch. “I also play the violin.”

“Really?” Nisha looks interested. “I had no idea. I played the cello in high school. I’ve been wanting to pick it up again. We should get together for a session!”

Aaron almost chokes on his beer. “Hang on now, I didn’t say I played well.”

“I haven’t played in like seven years! How bad could you be compared to that?”

As they talk about their music backgrounds, my attention drifts down the table again. Emmy’s talking to Scott, another guy from the club, and Stevie and Jude lean in toward each other, deep in conversation.

Jealousy punches me in the gut. I have no right to be jealous. None at all. But tell that to the warty green trolls playing tackle football in my abdomen. As I watch from the corner of my eye, Bean worms her way out from under the table and flies after the squirrels by the tree, her leash trailing behind her.

Stevie squeezes out from behind the picnic table and runs after her, Jude hot on their heels. Jack and Bear leap up and bark. Bear hits his head on the underside of the table with a thump.

I grab a handful of chips from the plate of chips and salsa I bought when we got there. Stevie and Jude try to trap Bean between them, but she keeps darting away, her eyes on the tree top the squirrels escaped to.

“Bean,” I say over the wild barking, “want a treat?”

She looks over, looks back at the tree, and then comes to me. I give her a chip and grasp her collar.

Stevie rewards me with a grateful smile as she collects Bean. “Why don’t I ever remember the food?”

“Nice work.” Jude claps me on the back. It’s a friendly gesture, but I have the ridiculous urge to punch him. Then grab him by some vulnerable part of his body and mutter stay away from her in his ear, like some kind of meathead jealous boyfriend. Never mind that despite being a few inches shorter, he probably has twenty pounds of muscle on me.

Back at the table, beers are overturned, dogs whine, and everyone’s on their feet. Which means Bean’s breakout effectively breaks up the party. We all take a few more drinks of our beers and snacks, clean up, and head out.

Stevie, Bean, and I walk home. It’s dark, the perfect temperature, and once we’re on side streets, quiet. Walking at night feels like moving together in our own private bubble. Bean pads beside us, totally oblivious to the temporary chaos she’d caused.

“That was an exciting finish to the night,” I say.

Stevie sighs. “I guess she needs more disc throwing. I’d hoped I was starting to see some change in her. A mellowing. But now I’m not so sure. Maybe I need to pay for some training or send her away to one of those doggie behavior bootcamps.”

“You could, but can you really see her saluting the drill sergeant?”

She laughs, but then goes quiet. “I guess not. Then, it’s up to me to help her to grow up and mature.”

I glance at my old friend, not so sure she’s still talking about Bean. I choose my words carefully.

“She is mature. She just . . . lives life on her own terms. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

Stevie smiles at me, her eyes a little teary.

When we were in fourth grade, Stevie’s teacher had given her a bad report card because of her “immature and disruptive behavior.” Carol had been really upset until she spoke to the school principal, a wise older lady who’d been in education since dinosaurs roamed the earth, or so all us kids thought. She’d told Carol that although she didn’t want to undermine her teaching staff, she believed that, “Your daughter just lives life on her own terms. And there’s nothing wrong with that.”

I didn’t know any of this at the time, of course; I’m not even sure Stevie did. She’d told me much later. But she’d seemed to let the teacher’s words define her in a way that still bothers her. Bothers me, too.

Like when my high school cross country coach told me I wasn’t a disciplined enough runner junior year; it kept me from seriously pursuing cross country in college. Everyone has these moments, I think, where we unequivocally believe other