Page 6 of Sidelined By Love

Iwas having a good dream. A really good dream. And I would still be. If it weren’t for Bronco.

I’d be in a beautiful couture gown, floating up the stairs at the front of the ballroom, music swelling and peers cheering. I’d take that gorgeous golden statue and offer my most heartfeltgratitude to the cast and crew that made it all possible. I’d thank my mom and my Nan—and later say in all the excitement I forgot to mention my dad.

Instead, I’m wiping slobber out of my ear as I glare into Bronco’s saggy brown eyes. He shakes his head, his ridiculous ears flopping wildly as the sterling silver tag on his collar jingles. He breathes dog morning breath into my face, and I slam a hand over my nose while using the other to push him away.

I open my mouth to holler for Nan to come get her pure-bred mutt out of my room and off my bed.

Except, it’s his room. And the doggy steps leading up to the foot of the bed suggest this lumpy mattress is very much still his.

At best, he’s loaning it to me. Under duress. I’m pretty sure Nan threatened to cut his treat rations if he didn’t share. As any good producer knows, craft services are the key to keeping the talent happy.

Under Nan’s roof, Bronco is the only talent that matters.

Even if he did just steal an Oscar out of my hands.

He lets out a little woof and pokes my arm with his wet nose. I’d give my next royalty check to be able to flop over, pull the rosy-pink quilt—circa 1984—over my head, and shut out the rest of the world. Just for a little while longer.

That’s not too much to ask.

And I would. If I had anywhere else to hide.

But Nan is the only one who cared enough to call after the story broke. She’s the only one who offered me a place to stay. Mom sent a condolence text. And a “pick better next time” reminder. Dad did . . . well, exactly what I’d expected him to. Shara was overseas, probably getting a tan on some millionaire’s yacht. My own sister hadn’t bothered to even pick up her phone.

Nan had called. Well, actually she’d texted.

Will you Facetime me?

I’m still not sure if she texted first out of consideration that I might not want to talk twenty minutes after my entire life imploded or because she still doesn’t know how to start a video call.

Either way, we were connected within seconds. And three hours later I was on a flight from Johannesburg to Colorado Springs via Frankfurt and Denver. At the airport curb, she’d given me a firm once-over then waved her gnarled fingers and said, “You’ll have to put your own bag in the trunk. I don’t have a doorman anymore.”

After my grandfather died more than fifteen years ago, she moved from her Manhattan high-rise to a hundred-year-old Victorian cottage in downtown Colorado Springs where she’d grown up. She probably has enough money to buy her block and several of the neighboring ones, but she swears she likes the simple life now. Bingo with her friends. Strolls around the block with her dog. Cozy winter evenings in front of her brick fireplace.

Her home has exactly one spare room. Which, until two days ago, belonged only to Bronco.

When she picked me up, she welcomed me with no comment on the Dior sunglasses that I prayed covered my bloodshot eyes and the purpling bruise across my cheekbone. So, I owe Nan every bit of my current sanity—thin as it may be.

I shove back the covers and grumble at the dog. “Come on, boy. Let’s go outside.”

Bronco gives me a low bark as I put my feet on the hardwood floor.

Oof, that’s cold!

I jump back onto the bed and gingerly search for my slippers with my big toe. After a few false starts, I find them and slide my feet into the relative warmth while Bronco sashays his way down the steps and around the corner of the bed.

October in Colorado Springs. At 4:55 a.m.

Outside is going to be brutal. So, I slip a hoodie over my pajamas. The neon tie-dye doesn’t exactly match the autumn colors of the plaid flannel pants that I borrowed from Nan after freezing my first night in town. But I don’t expect to find a pap loitering in the Springs. I barely expect the sidewalks to be out there at this time of day.

Shuffling through the dark house, I listen for any sign that Nan is awake. But the light isn’t on in her room.

Bronco seems to remember that the backyard is off limits thanks to an ongoing fence repair, so he trots through the kitchen, past the petite sofa in the living room, and straight for the front door. His little nails scratch at the bottom of the frame, and only then do I realize that I walked right past his leash on the kitchen wall.

Blame it on the early morning or the way Nan likes to keep all of her blinds closed, but the house is pitch black. Either way, the leash is on the other side of the house, and Bronco is starting to whine. The call of the urgent.

I’ve been there, man. The one-piece bodysuit I had to wear in the lastFantastic Fouriteration madeeverythingharder.

I tug on the handle, and the door creaks open, a blast of cold air hitting me square in the face. Bronco makes a break for it. And bybreak, I mean he lumbers across the small porch and down the two cement steps, sniffing everything in his path. His ears drag into the grass. He probably thinks he’s a real hunter instead of a spoiled, slightly chubby basset hound.

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