His dog must be the ugliest that she has ever seen.

She isn’t quite sure what breed it’s supposed to be. Drowned rat, maybe. Genetic anomaly. When he asked her to watch it while he went to New York, her instinct was to say no. No, God, please. Don’t make her.

Then he batted those damned lashes, and she heard herself say yes.

He’s back now, reunited with his stupid, ugly dog.

“Thank you,” he says. “Best pet sitter ever.”

She forces a grin.

“Are you sure you don’t want the money?” he asks, jerking his chin in the direction of the envelope on the counter, high enough to be out of his mangy mutt’s reach.

She studies him for a moment, her eyes running along his face. They’ve been in a strange sort of limbo for the longest time now, too familiar to be friends but not officially together either. He hasn’t even called any of their outings real dates, claiming they’re just hanging out, even when he flirts with her so openly, she walks home feeling breathless.

“How about,” she begins, “you save your money for the next time we go out?”

The dog scratches at the door. Go out is its sleeper agent phrase.

“Go out?” he echoes, adding to his dog’s distress.

On a date, she tries to say.

The words lodge in her throat like a dog’s pig-ear bone.

She crosses her arms, her eyes on his dumb mutt. “Did I ever tell you my grandparents had a dog?”

He tilts his head. “No. I don’t remember hearing that.”

“My grandma was convinced the dog could understand English. She would hold up a piece of chicken or a slice of cucumber. ‘What’s this?’ she would ask. ‘What’s this? Doggy, speak.’”

She licks her lips, picturing her grandmother in the kitchen.

“When it barked, always twice, the sound would shake the whole house. The dog would pause then. A test. If it was chicken, she would praise it, and the dog would get its treat. If it wasn’t, it would wait, then bark again.”

Like a question.

“She would give the mutt its food and call it a doggone genius.”

In a way, perhaps it was; it got just what it wanted.

“That’s cute,” he says.

“I guess.” She clears her throat. “Well, anyway, I’m the dog.”

He frowns. “What?”

“That’s how I feel. Because of you.” She bites her lip. “I’ve been waiting for a sign.”

“Of what?” he asks. Over his shoulder, the dog whines, itching to be let out.

She sighs, both at him and at his dog. “That you love me. That you could, one day, if we really tried.”

His silence stretches longer than the duration of his trip.

“I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I thought you knew. When I went to New York, I was visiting my girlfriend.”

Her silence, if measured, could span the distance between his house and New York about a thousand times over.

“Say something,” he begs her.

He’s asking her to speak.

She shakes her head. “Like what?”

More silence. The dog gives up on getting out.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“Oh, God. I know. You’re just so nice.” When she smiles, hurt ekes through her teeth like soft sunlight. “I always fall for the nice ones.”

Another prolonged silence. The dog pees right on the floor. She takes a breath to point it out but gets cut off by a bright DING. They look over at his phone, just beside the envelope. One last silence as she realizes the text is from his New York girl.

Closing her mouth, she tells him she really has to go. She’s done cleaning up his messes. Done barking up the wrong tree.

She plans on heading home to grieve what she sees she never had. Two minutes later, she finds herself at the dog park. She watches all the mutts, dumb enough to chase their tails. By the time she stands back up, the sun has set. The air is cold.

She leaves the dog park, having confirmed what she’s suspected all along: She is, and always has been, much more of a cat person.