“Sure,” Wyatt said with a shrug. “I’m up for anything.” He took a sip of his beer, then turned to Tom. “You doing the theater thing again?”

“Yep,” Palmer said proudly. “He’s got the male lead.”

“That’s awesome, brother,” Wyatt said, hitting Tom on the back.

“Yeah,” Tom said, wincing and moving a little farther away from him. “Um, thanks.”

I felt my phone buzzing in my bag and pulled it out, squinting at the screen. My immediate thought was that it was Peter, before I realized that there was nothing for Peter to contact me about any longer. I didn’t recognize the number—it came up as being from Colorado. I remembered the plates on Clark’s SUV and realized that over the course of the night, I’d never actually gotten around to finding out why he had them. But could he really be calling me? Calling to . . . what, exactly? I switched my ringer to silent, dropped my phone in my dress pocket, and leaned forward to pretend to listen to Tom, while my gaze roamed around the Orchard. There was a kind of cute guy in a baseball cap by the keg . . . and a decent one sitting one picnic table away. . . .

I felt my phone buzz again and saw I had a voice mail from the same Colorado number, as well as two missed calls that must have come through when I was in the dead zone by the Orchard entrance. Suddenly worried that something was actually wrong, I slid off the table, took a few steps away, and pressed the number to call it back. It rang only once before it was answered, the person on the other end sounding out of breath.

“Hello?”

“Hi,” I said. “Um, I got a call from this number?” I was ninety percent sure it was Clark, but that didn’t mean I had to necessarily let him know that I knew that.

“Andie? I’m sorry to call like this—it’s Clark McCallister.”

“Hi, Clark,” I said, still not sure why this was happening. Why was he calling me? And how, exactly, had he gotten my number?

Clark? Palmer mouthed at me, looking incredibly excited. I nodded, then took a step farther away so I wouldn’t have to have this conversation with my friends all looking back at me, listening to every word.

“Yeah,” he said, and I could hear his voice was high and stressed, much more raw than usual. “I’m so sorry to call you—I just . . . I can’t get ahold of Maya, and I had your number from her. . . .”

“It’s okay,” I said, realizing that this had something to do with the dog and wondering a moment later why I was feeling disappointed. “What’s going on?”

“It’s Bertie,” Clark said, and when he said the dog’s name, I could hear something else in his voice—fear. “I . . . He ate something, and I’m not sure what to do. I’m trying to call his vet, but . . .”

“Okay,” I said, trying to sound like I had any idea at all what to do. “It’ll be okay. I . . . um . . . Did you google the symptoms?” I glanced back to see Palmer looking confused, Toby and Bri not paying attention, and Wyatt looking amused by all of this.

“Must have been a pretty good date,” he said, arching an eyebrow at me as I turned away from him and walked a few more steps away.

“Yeah,” Clark said, and the tone in his voice made my stomach drop. This was, I realized from that one word, serious. “I don’t think it’s good. Would you—could you come by and see if you can help? I’m sorry to ask. I just . . . He’s not doing too great.”

“Of course,” I said, and even as I said it, a piece of me was wondering what the hell I was doing. But I knew I was going to go. Because it was what Maya, I was pretty sure, would want me to do. And because I knew if I didn’t, it would be all I’d think about for the rest of the night. “I’ll be there soon.”

Chapter SEVEN

Twenty minutes later I pulled into the driveway of Clark’s house. There were lights on outside, and most of the lights on the inside of the house seemed to be on as well. It looked somehow more imposing at night, the size of it magnified by the shadows stretching across the front lawn. My friends had seemed very confused about what I was doing, but I hadn’t stuck around to explain, just hugged the person nearest to me good-bye (it was Tom; he’d seemed surprised, but pleased) and hurried to my car, then drove a little faster to Clark’s than I probably should have.

I knocked twice on the door, but just as a courtesy—with my other hand, I was already pulling my key out of my bag. “Clark?” I called as I let myself in, then headed toward the kitchen.

He stepped into the kitchen doorway before I got there, blocking the light for a moment, then stepping back as I got closer. He was wearing the same clothes from earlier—except now his shirt was wrinkled and his collar askew. His short hair was no longer neatly combed, but looked like he’d been pushing his hands through it. “Thanks for coming,” he said, and it was what I’d heard on the phone, but more amplified, now that I could see his expression. He was terrified, but trying to hide it, which made whatever this was seem even scarier. “I wouldn’t have called—I didn’t know what else to do.”

“It’s okay,” I said, following behind him into the kitchen. For a second I had a flash of us, not that long ago, me following behind him through the restaurant as the hostess led us to our table. And now here we were, both in the same clothes, which now seemed somehow disappointed, like the hopes we’d had when we’d gotten dressed had come to nothing. “What’s going on?” Just as the words were out of my mouth, the smell hit me, and I stopped short. I’d been picking up after dogs for a week now, so I wasn’t squeamish, but this was something else.