Page 113 of Say You Will

After I’ve locked the place back down, I jog to the walled-off office in the back corner. Another entry. Another alarm turned off. Then I lock the office door behind me and step to the large wall of metal shelves that hold everything from emergency supplies to a fake potted fern that my sister thought would be a funny birthday gift. A hidden keypad under the bottom shelf slides the metal shelving to the right, revealing a hatch much like the one that opens up under the rug in the cabin living room. Down the ladder I go, then I hit the coordinating button to move the shelving back into place and make the much more quiet jog back to the cabin.

When I’ve entered the cabin through the living room hatch and returned the rug to its former position, I bank the woodstove for the night and glance toward the closed bedroom door. I don’t know exactly what I’ll find on the other side. Franki and Oliver asleep? Franki still in the bath? Or Franki awake and ready to throw another pillow my way?

When I reach the door, I open it to find her a quiet mound under the comforter. In the darkness, I remove my clothing, and, when I’m dressed in nothing but my underwear, I approach our bed. As I pull back the duvet, Franki’s stomach growls.

I sit on the edge of the bed, and the growl sounds again. Louder.

I snap on the bedside lamp to find, just as I suspected, Oliver cuddled in Franki’s arms.

Franki doesn’t stir, but he does, watching me with glittering, possessive intelligence.

“There’s a reason I didn’t put a ramp on this bed, Oliver,” I whisper.

He huffs and snuggles harder into Franki.

“You”—I point imperiously—“have your own bed in the kitchen. Go.”

He lifts his head and looks at the door before he smirks and drops back to cuddle under her chin.

I reach to lift him off the bed, and he whines. Loudly.

I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh.”

Franki doesn’t wake, clearly exhausted, but she tightens her arms around him and pats him like he’s her baby.

“I, too, would like Franki to pat me, Oliver. It’s my turn,” I whisper. Not that patting is likely whether Oliver is here or not. In fact, when she realizes she forgot to tell me to sleep somewhere else, she might make me to move to the couch.

Oliver closes his eyes and nuzzles her with his head.

I’m on my knees on the bed now, glaring. “Move it. Right. Now,” I whisper.

Oliver does no such thing.

Stomping to the kitchen, I dig around in his treat jar and return with one of his sweet potato and chicken snacks. Then I waggle it by the edge of the bed as I attempt to coax him in a cheerful, friendly-sounding whisper. “Come on, you little woman-hogging jerk. That’s it. Good boy. Come get your disgusting snack.”

He rolls his eyes and doesn’t budge.

With a huff, I set the treat on my nightstand and climb in under the covers, moving over to put my arm around Franki, determined to ignore the fact that Oliver is between us.

He puts out one stubby front leg and shoves my face away from both of them.

I jerk back in outrage. “Why do your paws smell like Fritos? Did you eat corn chips where I sleep?”

He bats at me again, and I retreat to lie cold and alone on the edge of my own damn bed.

“You haven’t won. I want you to know that. This is a temporary ceasefire because I appreciate the fact that you’re offering her comfort when she’s upset, and because I don’t want to wake her up. But this ismy bedand Franki ismy woman, andYou. Are. A. Dog.”

He gives a slow blink, smug triumph written in every long line of his body.

“Good. Night. Sir,” I hiss and click off the lamp.

He rolls in Franki’s arms until he gives me his back. Then a prolonged squeaking sound emanates from his direction.

Seconds later, I gag at the smell.

“You are such a dick,” I mutter.

Oliver doesn’t answer. He’s too busy snoring.

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