Free Stepdog by Nicole Galland Page A

that character is sort of a prat, but still. I shouldn’t’ve even gone back working for Danny’s uncle under the table, but I’d snuck in a few days here and there. I had a bit of a nest egg, so money-wise I was comfortable enough, but I did have a lot of downtime and sometimes got itchy feet.
    The first week or so at Sara’s I spent getting used to the neighborhood and creating a routine. The ritual became: We got up together, had breakfast, Sara walked the dog around the block while I cleaned up from breakfast. We then deserted the tragically sighing dog, I’d stroll with Sara to the bus stop, then I’d duck in to City Feed to grab a coffee and paper for the crossword. That finished, I loved meandering around Arnold Arboretum. I’d bring a book, headphones, walk for miles, and then treat myself to an afternoon espresso up on Centre Street. I bought a single-speed secondhand bike, and sometimes I’d cycle up to the cemetery, by the overpass, or in the other direction to the village in Brookline, feeding the ducks in Olmstead Park. Sometimes I’d chat with the old folk who sat on the benches along the water, taking time out from their old folks’ home across the way. Late afternoon, I’d head back, pick up some groceries at Harvest Co-op, using the pearly-new debit card from our pearly-new joint bank account. Then I’d bring the groceries in, give the dog (half catatonic from her afternoon siesta) a treat, throw on some sounds, and prep the dinner. Sara would come home, and there would be happy hugs and kisses and nuzzles . . . for the dog.
    And then some for me.
    Sara would head out with Cody for a long off-leash run in the arboretum while I continued getting dinner together. Once I’d indulged her sharing an hour of her limited free time with the dog, the rest of the evening, she was mine. I would entertain her with a few songs, a tickling match, a game of Scrabble using only proper nouns. For a week, our life was a romantic-comedy montage of people-being-playful-in-love scenes. Even though her place never really felt like mine, it was a lovely and manageable limbo. Everything that first week felt like a game, like we were somewhere on vacation, or at worst, we were kids playing house.
    But came the day when it was raining torrentially, and I was between novels, and I’d pulled a thigh muscle, and frankly, after walking Sara to the bus, all I wanted to do was go home and vegetate on my own couch all day while sorting out what to do with my sorry little unemployed arse. I was feeling heavy-duty nostalgia for my own space, for all the familiar energies and colors. But I couldn’t go home, as my home was now otherwise occupied. And I couldn’t go to my mates’, as they were all gainfully employed. And there’s only so much time you can sit in a café unless you’re writing a novel. But the prospect of lying about all day in someone else’s place . . . with someone else’s dog . . .
    It’s for the green card, I reminded myself, waving to Sara as she settled onto her seat on the bus while the rain penetrated my mop of hair all the way to the scalp. I headed back to her apartment.
    As I approached, I saw the dog inside, staring dolefully out the window up at the wet treetops. I wondered if I could lock her outside in the yard and have the place truly to myself, without feeling like a right bastard. I realized that probably, I couldn’t. She heard the key in the lock, and despite her doleful state, was prepared with her happy-puppy-welcoming-Mum-home routine by the time I’d opened the inner door . . . then she froze, halfway round her first circle, and cocked her head at me in confusion.
    â€œHey there, Cody!” I said.
    At that moment, something clicked in her little canine brain. When I would arrive home before Sara in the early evenings, I was simply a Curiosity . . . but claiming ground in the middle of themorning