Total pages in book: 91
Estimated words: 87155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87155 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 436(@200wpm)___ 349(@250wpm)___ 291(@300wpm)
“What was that about?” she asked, her eyes glued to her brother’s back as he raced to their house.
I glanced around to make sure she was actually talking to me before I replied, “Ramsey’s going to show me the dog he got yesterday.”
Just like her freaking brother, her whole face lit. “Bologna? He’s so cute.”
“He named the dog Bologna?”
“Yep. I tried to get him to name it Oscar like Oscar Mayer, but he said no. Besides, he’s brown, weird, and nobody wanted him, so I guess Bologna kinda fits.” She giggled musically, and for a moment, I was jealous that she still had the ability to laugh.
I’d long since lost mine.
When we got to their driveway, Ramsey came running out with a dog that came up to his knees on a leash. Well, it looked like a leash. When he reached Nora and me, I realized it was one of his father’s belts looped around the dog’s neck.
Nora had been right; the dog was brown and weird. His snout was short like maybe he had some kind of bulldog in his bloodlines, but his legs were long, and his ears stood on end. It was as if the day he’d been created, God had been cleaning the spare parts off his workbench. He was easily the ugliest dog I had ever seen. But that was exactly what made him so dang cute.
“Bologna, meet Sparrow. Sparrow, meet Bologna.”
“Don’t call me Sparrow. And don’t call him Bologna. That’s a terrible name.” I eased myself down to sit on the curb.
“What would you name him, then?”
I studied the dog for a second. Crap. Bologna did suit him. “Whatever. He’s your dog. Name him whatever you want.”
The dog inched toward me. I didn’t know much about animals, but the tuck of his tail between his legs couldn’t have been a good sign.
“You sure he’s not going to bite my face off like he did Josh?”
Ramsey sat beside me. “Nah. He prefers legs and good news yours is already covered in plaster. I think you’re safe.”
I shot him a scowl that only made his perma-grin spread, and if I was being totally honest, it made the warmth in my chest spread as well.
“Here,” he said, pulling a wad of lunch meat from his pocket. “Feed him this and you’ll be his new best friend.”
“First gum and now meat. What else do you keep in those pockets?”
He laughed. “Depends on the day. Play your cards right and I might smuggle you candy into class tomorrow.”
“Oh goodie, bologna-flavored Skittles. I can’t wait.” I tore off a piece of the meat and offered it toward the dog.
Sure enough his tail started wagging immediately. He was a gentle guy, nibbling rather than snatching the treat from my hand. Ramsey eventually dropped the belt, convinced he wasn’t going to run off. The dog sat there patiently until every morsel of the meat was gone. And when he was absolutely positive Ramsey wasn’t going to produce any more, he flopped down between us and put his head in my lap.
His hair was coarse and scratchy against my skin, but I pet him for at least a half hour.
And for a solid half hour, I didn’t think about my mother.
Or my leg.
Or my father.
Or my broken heart hanging by a thread inside my chest.
I just sat there. Ignoring my watch, petting the dog, and pretending everything was okay.
At some point, Nora got bored of her brother’s ramblings—a sentiment I shared the majority of the time—and went inside. In the miracle of all miracles, Ramsey didn’t transfer his rampant need to hear his own voice to me. I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye, but he didn’t say a word for a long while.
Cars sped by and kids rode bikes past us, attempting to strike up conversation with Ramsey, but he simply lifted his hand in a wave that served as both a greeting and a dismissal.
Together, we sat on that curb as the entire world carried on around us, but for the first time in months, the loneliness wasn’t killing me.
Because he was there.
Ramsey was always there.
“He’s adorable,” I finally whispered, opening what would surely be the floodgates to a conversation.
“You look happy,” Ramsey said, giving the dog’s back a scratch. “You’re pretty when you smile.”
My head snapped up almost as quickly as my cheeks heated. It felt amazing. All of it. The dog. The fact that Ramsey thought I was pretty. The fact that I did still have facial muscles that would allow me to smile.
But I was ten, claiming to be miserable, and the boy that I told myself I hated had just called me pretty. I couldn’t let that one slide.
I punched him in the shoulder. “What the heck is wrong with you?”
Bologna curiously lifted his head, and stupid, stupid beautiful Ramsey just grinned.