hand back.
Another moment passes. Smith clears his throat. Loudly. “I know you’re having a moment,” he says. “But I’m starving. And I’m guessing you are too.” He takes a step away from the stairs, tugging me along with him. “Let’s get Dyl and then figure out what comes next.”
I resist, for just a few more seconds, and then I lift my chin and swallow it all down—the same way I’ve always done.
“Okay,” I say. “Let’s go.”
(NOT THE) BEST DAY EVER
We can’t find Dyl.
We spend half an hour hunting through the garage, which is basically a junkyard for broken TVs, microwaves, fridges, and even a few toilets. When it’s clear she’s not hiding behind or inside any of these things, Smith suggests letting the dogs out to find her scent.
Before I can say, “Worst idea ever,” he swings the fence open and encourages the dogs by saying, “Go get her, boys.”
Smith apparently has only experienced dogs via TV and movies where they’re all Lassie save-and-rescue types. Witnessing the shock on Smith’s face when the dogs don’t immediately rush off in search of Dyl and instead knock him to the ground is a rare moment of actual non-suckage. Of course, two seconds later they knock me down too. And then they lick us. Not in a sweet loving way. No, they want the cheese that is still all over us, and they don’t stop until we are good and slobbery.
Then, as we peel ourselves off the ground, they go running in ten different directions, which is pretty impressive, ’cause my uncles only have five dogs. We finally convince them to return to the backyard by waggling hot dogs at them—the only treat enticing enough to make them give up their freedom.
Smith and I celebrate recapturing the dogs by spraying each other with my uncles’ hose. We even bring down some shampoo and soap, and get all sudsy right there in the front yard with our clothes on and everything. This is followed by an awkward trip to the bathroom that involves humming and closed eyes.
Finally, we sit on the front stoop drying out our clothes, eating Dinty Moore straight from the can, and hoping Dyl will wander back on her own. Smith also intermittently hollers her name and various neighbors curse back at him and offer many anatomically impossible threats of what they’ll to do him if he doesn’t shut up.
I grow increasingly tense as my uncles’ souped up truck doesn’t come roaring down the street to deposit them back at home. If they somehow found their way to Michaela’s, it’s easy to imagine at least twenty different terrible things that could happen to them.
In short, it’s not the best afternoon ever.
“Maybe she’s back at my house,” Smith finally says, but in a way that makes it sound like he doesn’t really believe it. I don’t think it’s likely either, so I shrug. “Or maybe,” Smith continues, “she’s hooking up with a great guy she met on the internet.”
“Wow,” I say. “Waaaay too soon to be making jokes about that.”
“Who’s joking? Anyone dumb enough to do that once—”
I interrupt, talking over him as loudly as possible, just to make him shut up. “Dyl made a mistake, you moron. She wasn’t trying to get killed. Someone lied to her and she fell for it. She dared to have feelings and some shitbag used them against her. How is any of that her fault? Why is it stupid to trust someone? To like someone and want them to like you too?”
I stop there, since it is obvious from his smoldering glare that Smith doesn’t want to hear any of this. Clearly, anger is Smith’s comfort zone. I can see it on his face, the way he blames me and blames Dyl and is so fucking furious with everyone and everything. This is the exact type of look that used to make my heart leap into my throat, because even though it was sorta scary to see this black core inside of him bubbling up and threatening to spill over, it was also sorta hot. I guess the fact that I thought this was hot says a lot about what’s inside of me as well.
But at this moment, I am too worn out to feel anything.
“Stomach bothering you, Smith? ’Cause you look a little . . .” I make a face indicating distress. “Sometimes the Dinty Moore can hit ya that way.”
He closes his eyes, no doubt disgusted by my puerile sense of humor and