Page 5 of Long Shot

I’m tempted to follow her and offer her a ride. Just to make sure she gets home safely.

I grip the steering wheel and knock my forehead against it.Don’t be an idiot. She’s an adult and she’s been walking home alone for months now.

I just need to stop thinking about her.

3

REESE

“No, no, it’s only seven-thirty. Go back to sleep,” I beg, burying my face in my pillow.

Jack nudges me again. A warm tongue slides over my ear.

“Shit.” Heaving a sigh, I throw back the covers and swing my legs over the side of the bed. I peer at Jack, who leaps down and runs to the bedroom door, tail wagging. “Good thing you’re cute.”

I pad out of my bedroom and through the living room to the door to let Jack out into the small, fenced front yard. It’s scrubby grass and dirt that the owner of the duplex said was going to be turned into a patio at some point, but I’ve seen no signs of it yet. I watch Jack trot out and do a circle around the yard, then lift his leg at a shrub. “Good boy.”

I yawn, leaning against the door in my panties and tank top. The sun is still low in the sky, casting long, early-morning shadows.

I had another nightmare last night. Shit.

They’ve been happening less often but I’m starting to realize they’ll probably never go away. They’re all a variation on a theme—I’m in grave danger but I’m frozen in place, can’t move, and though I try to scream the only noises that come out are painful squawks. I wake up sweating, my heart pounding. Then I lay in the dark wide awake.

And now I’m so tired.

Jack waddles back to the door, a smile on his face. Yes, it’s a smile. I open the door and let him in.

Maybe calling Jack cute wasn’t quite accurate. Some kind of mutt, he sort of looks like a small golden retriever with very short legs, but he’s adorable to me. I’m fostering Jack until he finds his forever home. Because I was a little lonely when I move to San Diego, I decided to explore fostering. I don’t want to commit to adopting a dog because I’m not sure how long I’m going to stay here. I still have my apartment back in New York. I still have friends and family there. I might go back there one day. Maybe.

I have no idea what the hell I’m doing here.

“Breakfast, little buddy?”

Jack follows me to the kitchen, where I pull the bag of dry dog food out of a cupboard and dump some into his bowl. I refill his water dish with fresh water, then start coffee for myself.

I think my sleep has improved since being here in San Diego because I’ve been busy, physically tired from waiting tables for eight-hour shifts, enjoying the sunshine and mild weather on my days off. Jack is the perfect companion for my runs on the beach—his short legs can’t go very fast.

I’ve become addicted to the ocean, to sitting in front of it in various spots I’ve discovered, watching the endless ebb and flow, the soothing whoosh of waves on the beach, sometimes easy and calm, other times more agitated and violent, but unfailingly constant.

I pick up my phone and do a quick scroll through Instagram, Facebook, and emails. I’ve carefully pruned my friends and follows so that all I see is close friends and family. I want to know what’s happening with them—my friend Josie just started a new job. My dad’s not on the socials, but Mom is and posts occasional Facebook updates about what they’re doing, and my older sister Kendall does, as well. They’re all busy, Dad the CEO of Ellis Leitch Financial, Mom doing volunteer work with a bunch of high-profile charities, Kendall a lawyer at a high-powered law firm.

I love them and I miss them, even though when I lived in New York I didn’t see much of them. I was busy, too, then, working weird hours that didn’t line up well with family dinners or parties. But even though I regret that, I’ve up and moved across the country.

I check the time on my phone before setting it down. Today I’m working an early shift at Conquistadors, starting at eleven, but there’s still plenty of time to take Jack for a walk on the beach then shower and change.

I dress in jeans and a hoodie, the morning still cool. Travel mug filled with coffee, Jack and I set out down Thomas Avenue toward the beach.

As we arrive at Ocean Boulevard, I glance over at Conquistadors, closed at this hour.

I shouldn’t have bugged Cade last night about how they manage the place. He works long hours, which is definitely part of owning a bar or restaurant, but his obvious need for control means he works more hours than he needs to. The word “delegate” probably isn’t in his vocabulary. Not only is he a manwhore, he’s a stubborn and inflexible workaholic.

That’s kind of pot and kettle-ish. I’m pretty sure people probably thoughtIwas a stubborn and inflexible workaholic. I totally get dedication and hard work. But lately I’ve been thinking a lot about what the priorities in life should really be.

Jack and I cross Ocean Boulevard, then the sidewalk beneath a few palm trees before hitting the sand. Early in the day in November, there aren’t many people on the beach, a few people running and a couple strolling near the water. Feathery white clouds streak the blue sky, the ocean a bit choppy with creamy whitecaps.

I turn and head toward Pacific Beach Pier, Jack bounding happily along. The breeze whips my hair around my face and I turn into it with a smile. Getting into a wide-open space with the ocean and the sky all huge and blue around me has a way of clearing my head.

Near the pier, we head back to the sidewalk. I love the old-time beachy atmosphere of this area with cute little shops, restaurants, and hotels, so different from New York. I lead Jack out onto the pier, inhaling the scent of sun-warmed wet wood and salt. Jack catches the scent of fish, his nose lifting into the air as he trots beside me. A couple of men at the end of the pier have fishing lines they’re patiently waiting on. I lean on the railing. Below me, a guy in a wetsuit paddles on a surfboard, waiting to catch a wave.

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