ARTHUR
I’d have guessed Cheyenne was Brooklyn’s sister even if I’d seen her on the street. She had the same tall, lean build, the same brown-blond straight hair, the same eyes. Even the way she tilted her head, eyeing me as I entered the kitchen, carried an echo of Brooklyn. Her nose was more snub, and I didn’t see the match to his dimples. Then again, his weren’t in evidence either in their strained exchange of glances.
Brooklyn said, “Arthur, this is my little sister, Cheyenne. Chey, this is my…friend Arthur. He hurt his leg and his apartment’s a walk-up so he’s staying with me.”
“Don’t call me Chey,” she snapped, then raised an eyebrow at me. “Boyfriend?”
“Cut it out,” Brooklyn told her before I had to come up with an answer. “You’re the one who showed up here in the middle of the night. You don’t get to demand details of my private life. Or do you want me to ask if our parents know where you are?”
“Of course they don’t. Duh.” But she dropped her gaze and took another big bite of her sandwich.
I figured I knew one way to take the tension level between the siblings down a bit. “Hey, do you like dogs?”
A smile crossed Cheyenne’s face showing that in fact, she and Brooklyn did share those dimples too. “I love them. I heard barking.”
“My dogs. Brooklyn’s letting me keep them here until my leg’s healed enough to go home.”
“What happened to you?”
Before Brooklyn could lecture her again about nosiness, I said, “I got shot.”
She stared at me.
I stared back.
“You can’t just say that and stop there. Like, are you a cop or something? Was it a burglar?”
“Nope.” Keeping a teenager off-balance wasn’t a bad thing, so instead of explaining, I called, “Ebony, come!”
Eb’s big paws scrabbled down the hallway from where I’d told the pups to stay, and he burst into the kitchen.
I ordered, “Sit,” just in time, before those same paws would’ve landed on Cheyenne’s lap. He plopped his butt down but gazed up at her, his big tail thumping.
“Can I pet him? Her?” Cheyenne’s eyes were glued to Ebony.
“Him. Eb for short. He’s very friendly but he’s also a moocher, so keep an eye on your sandwich.”
“Hi, Ebony.” There was something odd, a tone of wonder in Cheyenne’s voice as she reached to pet him that made me think of a much younger child.
I called, “Twain, come.” When the little beagle mix trotted in, I gestured him toward Cheyenne too.
In a moment, she’d slid out of her chair to the floor and was laughing, stroking Twain’s long ears while Ebony alternately nudged her with his nose and tried to lick her hands.
Brooklyn edged closer to me and said under his breath, “We weren’t allowed to have pets as kids. Nothing useless. Our neighbor had hunting dogs, but they lived in the shed, and when they got too old to work or didn’t do what he said, he’d shoot them. We weren’t supposed to ever pet them or give them treats because it would make them soft.”
“Oh man. That’s sad.” I was really curious about Brooklyn’s childhood. The clues I had suggested something rigid and unhappy. Who didn’t allow pets? Who shot dogs? But three a.m. wasn’t the time to ask. “She seems to like these two.”
“I love dogs,” Cheyenne said. “I used to sneak treats to Mr. Gordon’s hounds.”
I told her, “Well, as long as you’re here, you can give Eb and Twain all the attention you want. They eat that up.” A click of smaller feet warned me Chili was about to arrive. Holding a stay command wasn’t her forte. “This third dog, though?—”
Chili paused in the doorway to the kitchen, spotted Cheyenne, and began barking her fool head off.
I gimped over, awkwardly stretched my leg out, and bent to scoop her up so we could hear ourselves think. She grumbled a bit, but then relaxed in my hold. “This is Chili. It’s probably best if you ignore her. Let her come to you if she wants to, leave her be if she doesn’t. She doesn’t like most people.”
“She loooves me,” Brooklyn sing-songed. The smugness in his tone was probably due to the presence of his sister. I might not’ve seen my family in years, but I remembered the one-upmanship that was part of having siblings.
Chili has excellent taste. I didn’t say that out loud at the last moment, realizing that I didn’t know what role we were playing in front of Cheyenne. Or even if there would be an us, going forward. Maybe best not to sound too besotted. “He’s right,” I told Cheyenne. “She likes him the most.”
