The One who got Away

“Hey, there, Casper.”

I barely had the door closed when Casper, my white German Shepherd, came rushing to me, jumping up and begging for attention. I laughed, ruffled the hair behind his ears and quickly got him down before he threw me off my feet.

“Who’s a good boy?” I said, clapping and racing him into the kitchen. “Casper’s my boy, aren’t you?”

I grabbed the dry food and filled his bowl, laughing every time he tried to push me away and thrust his snout into the box. I had to hold him back, and he took the wrestling for a game that he was more than willing to play.

There were very few memories I took along with me when I moved out. Or to be honest

with myself, things my father let me take. Casper was one of them, and the most important one at that. I remember my dad telling me that if I was going to be living alone, there might as well be a man in the house.

Casper filled that role perfectly.

I left him to devour his food, and made a mental note to make sure I walked him before I set out again. I kicked off my shoes, took off my shirt and began unbuttoning my jeans as I turned my laptop on. From where I stood, the large windows gave me a perfect view of the woodlands outside my apartment complex, and for a minute I lost myself in its tranquility until the Windows chime brought me back.

Casper bumped into me as I quickly brought up my email window, and I giggled as he tried to get my attention. “We’re going out, don’t worry,” I said. “Just calm down, will you?”

I quickly checked my mail, deleting the spam that somehow still found its way into my inbox, and cursed under my breath when I read the message from my publisher. They had changed the publishing schedule again, and that meant I had to double my daily word count just to catch up.

“No time to lose,” I said and made my way to the bathroom, Casper close behind me. I undressed quickly, turned on the water and stepped into the shower.

I closed my eyes as the cold water washed over me. I had managed to evade my father as much as possible, but I knew that if he didn’t call me tonight, he was definitely going to talk to me in the morning. I felt like shit, really, not at all happy with what I had done. Even though it had felt fucking incredible. The diner was our bread and butter, and my father had slaved for decades to turn it into what it was today. Just thinking my actions could ruin all that made me feel even worse.

I had started working at the diner when I was only sixteen, and after my mother had decided that Kent was too small for her ambitions, I was taking on a lot more responsibility than a girl my age should have. I hated her for doing that to me, for deciding to see the world while I had to stay back and pick up the pieces. Still, over the years, Kent had slowly turned from ‘that town you want to get away from’ to a place I couldn’t imagine ever leaving.

My father had been good to me. He kept food on the table, helped pay through college so I wouldn’t be burdened with student loans, and made damn sure I grew up to be the strong woman he could be proud of. Obviously, fucking in the storage room was not one of the things he’d approve of. Then again, there was very little he approved of. He had given me hell just for moving out.

“Why the hell do you want to pay rent when you have a perfectly good room right here?”

His voice still echoed in my head every time I thought back to that night. It hadn’t been easy to explain, and when I thought about it now, I still couldn’t really voice my opinion. I had wanted out, I guess. A little independence, maybe. I loved the man to death, but a girl has got to be able to be on her own without her father constantly looking over her shoulder. Besides, I wanted to be able to bring a guy home without worrying about my father waiting in the living room with a shotgun.

Besides, I liked living alone. And at the age of thirty, the fact that I had still been living with my father was a little ridiculous.

I stepped out of the shower, grabbed a towel and dried myself quickly, before wrapping another one around my head and stepping out into the apartment naked. Another perk I had grown very fond of over the years. I checked my mail again, answered my publisher quickly, and then slumped down on the couch.

The diner was definitely a handful, and I cherished the hour or two I had between coming back home and driving out to the lake where I liked to write. A good cup of coffee would have made this perfect, if I hadn’t been too tired to get up. I pulled over the small blanket I kept to one side and covered myself, laying my head back on the cushions. If I was lucky, I could maybe get some shut eye before hitting the midnight oil.

I tried to think of the story I was writing, running through the rough plot I had in my head and tweaking the edges of it where I thought the story could really expand. For a few seconds, I let myself be dragged into the novel, standing to a side like a silent spectator as scene after scene played in front of my eyes. I smiled to myself.

I had started ghostwriting a couple of months out of college. There weren’t a lot of jobs in Kent for Lit majors, and the fact that I wasn’t going to be leaving any time soon made things even harder. Besides, running the diner was never easy, and I doubted any other full-time position would have given me the chance to help out as much as I currently did.

Ghostwriting was the perfect gig for me. Working wherever I wanted, a nomad as long as I had my laptop and an internet connection. Over the past two years, I had gotten really good at it, too. The work was paying for rent, gas and a few other bills, making my life a lot more comfortable than the pay from the diner alone would have done. I sometimes wondered if it was worth having two jobs, being harassed with deadlines while I slaved away at the keyboard. But it all seemed to pay off when the stories were done, when the manuscripts were sent in and well received, and even more work would come flooding in.

Besides, I was writing erotica, and that was always fun.

I opened my eyes just as Casper began to nuzzle against me, and I remembered that he still needed to be walked. I got up quickly, raced into the bedroom and pulled on the first pair of jeans I could find and a Slayer t-shirt. ‘Music of the devils’ my father had always said, although secretly, he would listen to a few heavy metal bands himself when he thought no one was looking.

I grabbed Casper’s leash, fought to put it on him as he raced around my legs, eager and excited, then lead him out of the apartment. A slight breeze had begun to pick up, and the smell of summer filled my senses. Casper led me along our regular route around the complex and onto a small path leading through the woods behind us. At the end of the path was a clearing that had been turned into a picnic area a couple of years back. Luckily for me and Casper, not a lot of people knew about the path through the woods. Which meant we usually had it all for ourselves.

The minute we reached the clearing, Casper struggled against the leash until I let him loose and he charged off. The picnic area was pretty crowded this time of day, and beyond the large clearing I could see North Main Street where the main parking lot was. Usually Casper had the good sense to stay close to me, and that gave me enough breadth to really relax while he played with whichever children were willing to give him the time of day. I found a shaded spot near a tree, sat down and pulled my knees to my chest. Days like these made me feel alive, and with the crowd around me enjoying the summer afternoon, I closed my eyes and let my mind wander.

I must have dozed off for quite a while. When I finally opened my eyes, the sun had begun to set and the skies had turned a brilliant orange. Casper was dozing off beside me, and he quickly perked his ears and looked at me when I shifted positions and stretched.

“You were supposed to wake me up,” I told him, ruffling his fur before reattaching the leash. He got up even more reluctantly than I did, and with little protest let me lead him back to the path home. I looked at my watch, cursed and picked up the pace. If I didn’t get a move on, I’d never get any writing done today.

Working at home had become harder and harder, and despite the workstation I had set up for exactly that purpose, I had recently found myself becoming distracted by the smallest things. For the past week, I had begun the routine of writing at a small café near the diner, close enough to pop in if needed, but far enough not to be called upon for every little thing. The only problem was the café had a habit of attracting an evening crowd, especially college students, which meant I never really got anything done anyway.

Looking at my watch again, I realized that if I got moving now, I might only be able to get a couple of hours in.