Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 77874 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 389(@200wpm)___ 311(@250wpm)___ 260(@300wpm)
But Meadow is expecting me, and I wouldn’t do that to her…or the pups. “What have we gotten ourselves into?” I ask them, but no one answers. Not even Ella.
CHAPTER FOUR
Archer
“I think Easton is sad,” Meadow tells me when we’re in the truck. She’s always been like that, an old soul in a young body. I think part of that has to do with what she’s been through. Knowing that what people used to see when they looked at her didn’t match what she knew to be true inside, before she even had the words for it, Meadow has always been sensitive to other people’s emotions and very good at being vocal about hers.
“Yep, I think you’re right.”
“It’s nice you guys are friends.”
Friends is probably too strong a word for what we are. I’d like to be friends with Easton, but when I think about it, I’m not sure he has any friends at all. He talks to people, meets people at the bar, but I don’t think anyone knows anything about him or spends meaningful time with him. He keeps himself too closed off for that. “I want to be his friend.”
“I’m sure he wants it too, Uncle Archer.”
I’m not so sure, but I don’t share that with her. And actually, that’s not true. I don’t believe Easton doesn’t want to be my friend; I just don’t think he knows how to let himself.
We continue to the park, then wait for Easton. I’m not at all surprised he adopted that dog. I have no idea how he got his other one, but after seeing her—her limp, missing part of one ear—I assume it’s from the same shelter.
A shelter he volunteers at.
The man everyone thinks doesn’t give a fuck about anyone, the town troublemaker, spends some of his spare time volunteering with animals and adopting the ones no one else wants. The more I learn about him, the more I want to know. I think maybe a part of me wants to become an expert in all things Easton Swift.
He pulls up beside my truck. He and the dogs get out—he’s got a bag in his hand too—and we walk over to find a place in the grass.
“I keep a ball and frisbee in the truck for Pretty Girl. I’m a little nervous to let him off the leash, though. We’ll have to see if the fenced dog area is empty.”
“What are you going to name him?” I ask.
“Not sure yet. Need to figure out what fits. They were calling him Spot, and I’m insulted on his behalf.”
I chuckle, appreciating seeing this different side of East. “He does have that white spot.”
“It’s a terrible name,” he replies.
“I agree with Easton.”
“Who asked you, brat?” I tease Meadow, and Easton almost stumbles. I reach out, putting my hand on his arm.
“I’m fine.”
Okay…I have no idea where that came from, but I often don’t with Easton.
We’re lucky and there is no one else in the fenced area for dogs, so we head there. Easton kneels and unclicks Pretty Girl first. Then he gets close to Spot, saying something to him I can’t hear, before unhooking his leash as well.
Pretty Girl begins sniffing around, and Spot follows right behind her. Wherever Pretty Girl goes, he goes, back and forth, left and right, as if he knows he must stay close to his sister.
“He likes her,” Meadow says.
“She makes him feel safe,” I reply, feeling Easton’s gaze on me. I turn his way and offer a small smile, expecting him to tell me to fuck off or at least look away, but he doesn’t do either of those things. He just…watches, almost like today is the first day he’s seen me and he’s trying to figure out who I am. “What?” I ask.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head and looks away.
“Can I throw the ball for them?” Meadow asks.
“Yeah. I’m not sure if he plays catch, but Pretty Girl does. She might fall, but she always gets back up again,” Easton tells Meadow, and I can’t help wondering if he realizes that he always gets back up again too.
He grabs the tennis ball from the bag and tosses it to Meadow. We watch as she throws it for the dogs, Pretty Girl running after it, tripping, and getting up. Spot runs too, but I’m pretty sure he’s just following Pretty Girl and not the ball.
“How long have you been volunteering at the shelter?”
“A few years.”
“Nice. And your job with Dusty? You like it?”
“It pays the bills.” He keeps watching Meadow with the dogs.
“Have you always liked cars?”
“Is this a police interrogation or what?” He finally turns his blue eyes on me, and I chuckle.
“No. It’s called getting to know someone.”
“You know me.”
“Does anyone know you?” I counter, then wonder if that went too far. Maybe he doesn’t know I’m being playful.