Page 121 of Lost Love on 6th Street

I have so many questions. “Luke adopted my dog.”

“The dog you were going to—"

“Yeah.”

Jolene eyes me carefully. “How does that make you feel?”

A brick is lifted off my chest. “I feel like I should go talk to him.”

Jolene grins. “Atta girl.”

* * *

I pull up in front of Luke’s house, the house I’ve never visited.

It’s unexpectedly charming in a subdivision much more suited to couples and families than I’d expect for Luke and the life he lives. His home is a white bungalow, shaded by trees, surrounded by a white picket fence. The mailbox juts out an angle toward the street and has been haplessly repainted to obscure the name of the former owners.

A veranda encircles the house with a bench I’d love to sit on as night approaches.

The best part, though, is the blonde dog having the time of his life in the front yard, flipping and flopping. Finally free.

When I climb out of the car, Shortbread clocks me. He starts barking, music to my ears.

I walk up to the gate and reach over to scratch his ears. “Hi, honey. Oh, hi. You look so happy.”

He licks and whines, his tail thrumming like a bass drum.

My eyes well up with tears. He’ll be happy here. If Luke wants nothing to do with me anymore, Shortbread will be happy here.

A figure moves in my periphery. I lift my eyes and see Luke has come out of the house. He’s standing, leaning against one of the columns at the top of the stairs. Looking amazing as always. Not his 6th-Street self. A band T-shirt and a pair of old jeans with frayed cuffs. Damn, the cowboy looks good even when he takes the day off.

Neither of us says anything. Where do you start?

I unlatch the gate, making sure Shortbread can’t dart past me into the street. “Excuse me, baby.”

As I walk up the front walk, Luke descends the stairs, one at a time. His arms are pressed over his chest defensively, but his expression isn’t standoffish. He’s trying to read me just as I’m trying to read him.

Neither of us stops until we’re close enough to hold one another.

I slide my arms around his waist, and he loops his around my upper back.

I should say hi or something, anything. But I’m mute. I have nothing to say. I’m happy right here, not understanding. If this is the last time I hold him, at least it feels good. At least I know it’s right.

Luke’s lips brush the crown of my head. I cling to him tighter.

Shortbread yips and leaps up, trying to break us apart.

“Kids,” Luke says.

“Yeah, tell me about it.” I lift my head and rest my chin against his chest, offering Shortbread a hand as a peace offering.

Luke takes a deep breath. “What are you doing here?”

“Claire called me. To tell me you adopted Shortbread.”

“Ah . . . she told me you were going to Chicago.”

“Yeah.”

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