“You’re moving to Santa Monica, not Siberia,” she joked. If she was freaked out by the mess, she didn’t show it, but she was an actress, so I never presumed to know how she felt. It suddenly occurred to me that maybe I was dodging a bullet by not marrying someone who was a master at pretending. I don’t love to talk about my feelings, but actions speak louder than words. Of course acting on your feelings is not always a great strategy （see: my ill-fated proposal）， but at least you always know where you stand with me.
I saw Ashley eyeing my piles, so I reassured her. “Don’t worry, I’m going to clean all this up.”
“Do you need help?” she offered.
“Nah, I’m good.”
Then, to make good on my promise, I picked up a bag of old ski gear （battered helmet, stinky neck gaiters, broken goggles） and started for the front door. I didn’t think to be careful about the dog because he had never bolted before. But it was apparently a week of many firsts, because as soon as I opened the door, he shot through it like a rock from a slingshot.
“Brando!” I shouted.
Ashley jumped up from the kitchen table. “Oh my God, Brando!”
“Sorry!” I put the bag down and took off after him. His furry tail was a blur as he careened down the sidewalk. He was fast for a little guy, and if I hadn’t been dressed for running, there was no way I could have kept him in my sights.
“Brando, come!” I shouted, but he was like a horse running for the barn. He banked right, onto the steep cul-de-sac at the end of my block, so I turned on the jets and followed him around the corner.
Raindrops were blurring my vision as I combed the street for a glimpse of his furry backside. He must have ducked into someone’s yard, because he was nowhere to be seen. Just as I was about to backtrack toward home, Ashley pulled up beside me in her MINI Cooper.
“I know where he is,” she said. “Get in.”
“I’m so sorry,” I said as I climbed into the passenger seat. “I’ve never seen him do that—I didn’t think to be careful.”
“Don’t apologize,” Ashley said. “This was completely out of character; I don’t know what’s gotten into him.”
We reached the end of the block, and Ashley turned into a rocky driveway enshrouded with trees and tangled brush. Loose gravel popped beneath our tires as we wound past stuffy old lampposts that dotted the perimeter like cast-iron sentries.
“Is this that casting director’s house?” I guessed. I remembered her describing it as “creepy,” and this certainly fit the bill.
“Yep.”
We rounded a gentle curve, and the house appeared like an apparition in the mist, all jagged edges and cartoonish turrets. I squinted through the fog, and there, to my great relief, was Brando, feasting on birdseed that had fallen from the bird feeder.
“I can’t believe he dragged us all the way here for a few crumbs of birdseed,” I muttered, not grasping that dogs sometimes just know things, like when someone is in trouble, or that death is in the air.
“Maybe I should start adding birdseed to his kibble,” Ashley joked as she pulled over and turned off the ignition.
I unclipped my seat belt. “I’ll get him.”
Cool rain was spitting down from the dull, gray sky as I stepped out onto the drive. I was so focused on Brando I almost didn’t see the man coming down the front porch stairs. I tried not to act jealous when I recognized him.
“Hey,” I said, with a little wave.
“Hey,” the man who stole Ashley’s heart said as our eyes met.
“Just going to collect the dog.” I pointed, and the man nodded. Nathan, I remembered. His name is Nathan. I didn’t know if I should hate him for stealing Ashley away from me or be grateful to him for saving me from a doomed marriage. Because of course people can’t be stolen. And wasn’t it better to find out she didn’t want to be my wife before walking down the aisle with her?
“Whatcha doin’？” I asked Brando as I bent over to scoop him up. He answered with a bark, and I shook a finger at him. “You scared us.”
I didn’t have a leash, so I carried him like a football back toward where Ashley was standing with her hookup. I tried to read their body language. His hands were jammed in his pockets, she was keeping her distance. But maybe that’s just because of me?
“I can take Brando home if you want to hang out,” I offered, because it seemed like the generous thing to do.
But before she could answer, I heard something that stopped me in my tracks: a muffled pop that sounded like a giant twig breaking. Brando’s ears perked up like he’d heard it, too.