Page 37 of This Beautiful Lie
I could do one week.
When I stepped out into the living room again, Dean was nowhere to be seen, but I could hear muffled movement somewhere down the hall. George lifted his head when he spotted me again and gave a single tail thump against the side of his bed.
I wandered deeper into the room, eyes catching on a built-in bookshelf tucked beside the fireplace. It didn’t match the rest of the house. Where everything else was sharp and minimal, the shelves were cluttered—which drew me closer like a kitten to a ball of string.
There were rows of first edition Sherlock Holmes novels, right beside a full set of encyclopedias. Every religious text I could name—Bible, Quran, Torah, even a Book of Mormon.
And then, tucked between two oversized psychology volumes, was a worn paperback copy ofThe Princess Bride.
Dog-eared. Binding well-loved and stretched.
I blinked, smiling in spite of myself.
Farther down the shelf, I found an entire collection of Marvel comics—protected in sleeves, signed, preserved like artifacts. But then next to them, a beat-up how-to book on mechanics, held together by duct tape.
My eyes latched onto a picture frame.
A tiny photo was tucked into the corner of the shelf. Dean with a young girl perched on his shoulders, both of them sunburnt and laughing. Her face was painted like a tiger. He looked no older than sixteen. Less tired. More open.
I stared at it a moment longer than I meant to, something tugging in my chest that I didn’t want to name.
Behind me, I heard the click of nails on hardwood, and turned around to find George standing behind me, this time with a thick rope toy hanging from his mouth.
He wagged his tail slowly, then dropped the toy at my feet.
I raised a brow. “What?”
He tilted his head to the side as though I were an idiot, ears perked like he was trying to understand me.
“You want to play?”
At the word, he stepped back and crouched slightly in a downward dog position.
I bent to grab the rope. “Alright?—”
But before I could throw it, he clamped down on the other end and yanked.
I stumbled, catching myself on the side of the couch with my other hand. “Let go and I’ll throw it for you,” I told him.
George only wagged his tail harder, his grip unwavering.
“Okay, big guy,” I said, tightening my hold. “You’re ridiculously strong, you know that?”
He growled playfully, and before I knew it, we were locked in a full-blown tug-of-war. Me, in my pressed whites. Him, all one-hundred-and-fifty pounds of stubborn determination.
“You don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into,” a voice said from behind me.
I let go, and George stumbled back, victorious. He pranced toward his bed, rope in tow, as though he’d just won a trophy.
I turned to find Dean leaning in the doorway, watching me with an expression of amusement and… something else. How long had he been there?
“You could’ve warned me,” I said, feeling incredibly self-conscious.
“And ruin his fun?” He raised a brow. “Not a chance.”
He grabbed a pair of sunglasses off the counter, then his keys, and then…
A leash.
