Page 60 of The Beach Trap

“You run ahead on that side,” I tell Blake, pointing to the other side of the street. “Run past him, then circle back and we can close in on him.”

Blake nods and starts to run, but slows in front of a yard where the remnants of a barbecue are scattered on the lawn.

“Cheese,” she says.

I look around, confused. “Is someone taking our picture?”

“No. The dog loves cheese.” Blake steps onto the lawn, where a fold-out table is full of condiments, and grabs two slices of cheese, handing me one.

Blake takes off, leaving me holding the cheese as a man walks out of the house.

“Hey, that’s my cheese!” the man shouts. I shrug in lieu of an explanation and jog off after Blake, who’s running with the form of an elite athlete.

I find myself wondering if she played sports in college. If she even went to college. It strikes me that as much time as we’ve spent orbiting around each other the last few weeks, I have no idea what she’s been up to the last fifteen years.

“Max!” Blake calls from the far side of the street, blocking the dog’s line of escape. “Here, Maxi-pad!”

“I’ve got cheese!” I call as I creep closer to him. “Want some yummy cheese?”

I have no idea if dogs understand English, but I’m pretty sure he’ll know the sound of the plastic wrap opening.

Blake and I inch closer on either side of the dog. He’s frozen in place, trembling with fear.

“Come and get some cheese,” I say.

The dog looks at me, tongue hanging out of his mouth, tail wagging.

“Come here, boy,” I say, squatting down to his level. I wave the flimsy slice of cheese like a surrender flag and the dog ambles toward me.

I keep my eyes on him, ready to lunge for his collar. “Good boy,” I say, trying to keep my voice calm and reassuring. Blakecloses in from the other side, so even if the dog attempts a dine-and-dash, she’ll be there to get him.

Luckily it doesn’t come to that. The dog takes the cheese from my outstretched hand, then curls up at my feet to eat it. Blake swoops in and pulls him into her lap.

Her entire face melts, and tears slide down her cheeks. “You stupid dog,” she says, nuzzling her face in his fur. “What were you thinking?”

The dog licks Blake’s face as she rubs his belly. For someone who says she doesn’t care for the animal, it seems the five-grand price tag isn’t the only reason she’s so relieved.

“Thank you,” Blake says to me.

“Anytime,” I tell her, even though I wouldn’t mind if I never had to do that again.

•••

By the timewe get the dog safely back in the house, I’m exhausted.

“I could use a drink,” I announce.

“Same,” Blake says. She looks at me and I smile, and I guess we’re having a drink together.

“Want a Truly?” I ask. I noticed earlier she was only drinking the beer she’d bought.

She says, “Sure,” and I grab two from the fridge and we both head outside.

As soon as the sweet bubbles slide down my throat, I relax. The earlier panic from Dog-Gate finally starts to dissipate.

Blake and I sit in companionable silence for a while, listening to the waves and the last stragglers clearing out from the beach. Something between our chairs catches my eye and I lean over to pick it up: one of the face-paint brushes Blake used on Sunny earlier.

“Want a butterfly tattoo?” Blake asks, a familiar spark in her eyes.

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