New neighbors Andi and Hayden don't get off to the best start - and neither do their dogs. When the hostility between their pets, Bart and Rosie, leads to noisy barking, Andi and Hayden must solve their pet's tension or risk eviction from their apar...
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Waves spike the shore, the sloshing water lapping through the air. A yellow towel drapes over my shoulders, the fluffy fabric cocooning my sore body in a warm hug, replacing the sun as my source of warmth. When the sun fell under the coastline, it took a chunk of heat—and a chunk of light. I sit on the sand, slurping up the last moments of visibility in the dim, peaceful night.
Only three souls lay in sight. Carl, sat in the window of his building, eyes locked on his crossword, me, leaning over my notebook, scribbling my ideas, digging my toes into the sand, and trying my hardest not to drip on the paper, and Hayden, sitting three inches beside me, gazing at the water.
He and I made it back without getting caught in a riptide, bitten by poisonous fish, lost in nothingness, or eaten by the Lake Ness monster. All huge accomplishments in my book, but I also accomplished real things. Just like yesterday, the environment stirred ideas. As I lay back and thought, the floodgates opened. Solutions to logistical problems whirred around me, and I could all but see my presentation playing through my head.
It surprised me: my own ability to relax out there. I curl my left hand, the phantom feeling of Hayden's slick board lodged between my fingers. I sneak a glance at him, scanning each curve of his chiseled, damp side profile—the full, plump lips, the water-laced scruffy chin, the redness freckling his straight nose. Trusting someone else to handle the bad shit felt...fucking incredible. Like a heavy dumbbell lifted from my shoulders, and I could just be. No worries, no anxieties, no keeping track of every little thing.
The second we emerged from the water, I told him how much I appreciated it. He said it was no big deal and urged me to write down my ideas before I forgot them.
He did not have to tell me twice.
"Shit," I curse, a rogue droplet escaping the ends of my hair. The water bleeds into the dusty paper, dispersing the ink of my perfectly written word: color. I briskly dab the spot, but I'm not fast enough. The damage is done.
Color is now c0yekdsfj.
I groan, suffocating my pen in a death grip. That's the fifth word ruined by the water's attacks.
I swing my hair to the back of my neck—a place that must be old, dusty, and infested with mice because my hair refuses to stay there. Unfortunately, on one of my falls, the impact snapped my ponytail holder in two, so my hair is free, armed with water (no matter how hard I try to ring it out), and ready to launch missiles on my scribbled ideas.
Switching to the offensive, I squeeze the short, dark strands, fighting back.
When finished (and knowing full well the hair will bombard me again), I swipe to the front page of my notebook. To-do List, the top reads in big black letters. Under it lies my neatly lined tasks, many of which I've already checked off.
Sighing, I move my pen to the bottom of the list.
BUY WATERPROOF PENS, I scribble.
When done, I bring my pen to my chin, reviewing the list. Another necessary task pops into my head, and I move my pen back.
