A Bark in the Park

I didn’t cry when my parents hugged me goodbye. I didn’t cry when the elevator doors closed on their proud, watery smiles. But I did cry when I opened my dorm closet and realized it barely qualified as one.

Okay, not actual crying. But the dramatic sigh I let out? That was real.

“Small but full of character,” I muttered, eyeing the beige walls and twin bed that barely fit against the window. Welcome to college, Amaya Rosario. May your dreams be big and your storage solutions creative.

I tossed my duffel onto the mattress and peeled off my jacket. Outside, New York City pulsed with energy—horns blaring and voices carrying. I cracked the window open just an inch to breathe it in, feeling like I’d finally arrived.

It wasn’t my first time in the city, but my first without a return date. That thought sent my heart racing—excitement, nerves, a hint of fear. I started unpacking to calm myself, lining up my books on the shelf, then clothes, fairy lights, and a framed photo of me, Xenia, and Ofelia from last summer—instant personality.

As I debated where to hang my corkboard, the door opened. A tall girl entered, dragging two suitcases and a messenger bag, her black curls piled messily atop her head.

“Oh, thank God,” she said. “I was so scared I was going to get someone weird.”

“Too late,” I said, raising a hand. “You got me.”

She laughed and set her bag down with a thud. “Delilah Carver. But everyone calls me Lila.”

“Amaya Rosario.” I introduced myself

We shook hands like we were sealing some roommate treaty.

She flopped dramatically onto the other bed and stared at the ceiling. “So, are you one of those perfectly organized, planner-obsessed types?”

“I mean… I brought color-coded sticky tabs,” I said.

“I brought a mini waffle iron,” she replied. “Clearly, we’re both here to thrive.”

We talked while unpacking, sharing bits about our lives. She was from Atlanta, undecided about her major, allergic to bees but not avocado, and snored “just a little.” I told her about growing up in New Jersey, my iced coffee obsession, and the time I accidentally dyed my hair blue while making DIY shampoo.

As the sun set, our room felt lived in—half hers, half mine. She invited me to dinner with other first-years, but I declined. I needed a walk, something quiet and mine. So, I slipped on my sneakers and stepped into the city with no real plan—just the urge to move forward.

I wandered without a destination, enjoying the familiar feeling of walking alone. I passed bustling coffee shops, vivid convenience stores, and people walking dogs in sweaters—classic New York. Eventually, I rounded a corner and paused to admire the row of brownstones, which looked like they belonged in a movie, quiet and dignified, with lit windows whispering stories.

That’s when I saw him.

Or rather, I saw them first—the dogs. One corgi I definitely recognized, one Leonberger who looked like she still thought she was a lap dog, and one familiar mix of golden fluff and lopsided enthusiasm bounding ahead with his leash stretched like a tripwire.

Rufio.

My heart did this tiny, embarrassing stutter step. Not because of the dog—though, okay, yes, he was adorable—but because of who was holding the leashes.

Alan Chambers.

Technically, I’d met him before. A few times, actually. When Xenia first moved in with Clay and needed help getting settled. Alan had been their dog-walker then—still was now, from the looks of it. He didn’t talk much, which only made him harder to forget. Quiet, but not awkward. Kind but cautious. The type of guy who remembered your name, your dog’s nickname, and exactly how many treats you were allowed to give before it “counted as a second dinner.”

I hadn’t seen him in months, but there he was, hoodie sleeves pushed up, hair slightly tousled from the wind, walking three dogs like it was the most natural thing in the world.

And Rufio, who had definitely grown since I last saw him, spotted me.

He perked up, ears twitching. One second, he was trotting along. And then the next, he launched toward me with pure, joyful chaos in every step.

“Rufio—no!” Alan’s voice cut through the air, but the leash had already slipped enough for Rufio to cover the distance.

I barely braced before he collided with my legs, tail wagging like a metronome on double time. I crouched down automatically, laughing as he licked my cheek and nudged his head under my arm like we were old friends.

Okay, maybe we kind of were.

“Well, hey, you,” I said, rubbing behind his ears. “Did you miss me, or do I just smell like peanut butter again?”

A beat later, Alan jogged up, breathing a little heavy but more exasperated than anything. “Sorry,” he said. “He thinks boundaries are optional.”

I looked up at him and smiled. “You mean still?”

His eyebrows twitched. Recognition flickered behind his eyes.

“Amaya, right?” he said.

I stood, brushing dog hair off my jeans. “Right.”

He gave a half-smile that tugged at one side of his mouth and made my stomach flip for no good reason. And just like that, my quiet walk had turned into something else entirely.

“You’re still walking Zeus and Tinkerbell?” I asked, gesturing to the pair watching Rufio like disappointed parents.

It was a stupid question to ask. Obviously, Alan was still their dog walker. Hell, I knew he was still their dog walker. Tinkerbell has some serious anxiety. No way would Xenia switch up her dog walker. Tink was comfortable with Alan, which was a huge feat. She doesn’t like him as much as she does Xenia, but she doesn’t even like Clay as much as she likes Xenia. I think the only other thing Tink likes as much as Xenia is Zeus, and that’s for totally different reasons. Zeus is her hubby.

“Oh, yeah. This isn’t one of their usual days,” he said, giving their leashes a light tug to bring them back in. “Clay and Xenia still over-spoil them, so they need extra walks.”

That made me grin. “That tracks.”

Rufio circled back to lean against my leg like he’d decided I was his human now. Alan watched him for a second, then looked at me again, his expression unreadable but not unkind.

“You’re in the city for school?” he asked.

“Yep. Just moved in today.” I hooked my thumbs into the straps of my bag, trying to seem cooler than I felt. “And already getting tackled by dogs, I sort of know.”

His brow lifted slightly. “Rufio’s selective about his people.”

“Selective, huh?” I glanced at the golden fluffball rolling onto his back in full belly-rub mode. “Guess I should be honored.”

Alan knelt to re-secure Rufio’s leash, giving the dog a few quiet words that made his tail thump. Then he straightened, adjusting the tangle of lines in one practiced motion.

He looked like someone who didn’t say more than necessary—but everything he did say mattered.

“You still walking for clients in this area?” I asked before I could talk myself out of it.

He blinked. “Yeah. Weekdays mostly. Why?”

The words left my mouth before my brain could catch them. “Need any help?”

Alan stared at me.

Not in a ‘what a weird thing to ask’ way, but in a ‘why would you ask that?’ way. Me? I didn’t have an answer. Not a rational one, anyway. I liked dogs, and I had time between classes. And maybe, just maybe, I wanted a reason to see him again that wasn’t a random sidewalk coincidence.

“I mean,” I added, “I’m not trying to take over your job or anything. But I’ve got a pretty open schedule, and I’ve walked these guys before. And Rufio likes me.”

Rufio confirmed this with an enthusiastic sneeze and a flop onto my foot.

Alan exhaled, the corner of his mouth twitching like he was fighting off a real smile. “You’re serious?”

I shrugged. “I might as well do something I enjoy while figuring out the whole college thing.”

He studied me momentarily like he was running silent calculations behind his eyes.

Then: “I’ll think about it.”

I opened my mouth to protest, but he beat me to it.

“I didn’t say no. Just—let me think about it.” He assured me.

That was probably the most I’d get out of him today. So, I nodded and grinned. “Okay. But just so you know, Rufio already hired me.”

Alan shook his head, amused. “He doesn’t have hiring privileges.”

I looked down at Rufio, who gazed back with pure smugness.

“Sure,” I said. “Keep telling yourself that.”

A few days later, I officially became an unofficial part of Alan’s dog-walking crew.

No paperwork. No formal agreement. Just a text: “7th and Ash. 3:30 sharp. Hope you own real sneakers. – A”

I’d ask how he got my number since I didn’t give it to him, but I could only assume it was Xenia or Clay. I showed up wearing my best I-can-handle-this outfit, complete with a fanny pack I borrowed from Xenia and two rolls of emergency poop bags already loaded. I was prepared. Or so I thought.

What I wasn’t prepared for was the pack. Not just Rufio, Tinkerbell, and Zeus, but four more—each with a different gait, energy level, and attitude. A Frenchie named Waffles with the emotional stability of a gremlin. A golden retriever named Disco, who tried to lick every single stranger we passed. A senior dachshund named Pickles, who had his own stroller. Wasn’t the point of sending your dog on a walk for them to, oh, you know, WALK? But I reminded myself I didn’t know his medical history; maybe it was more about socialization and fresh air than literal exercise. And a wiry little mutt named Skipper who barked at fire hydrants like they owed him money.

Alan greeted me with a quiet nod, a leash in each hand, and what might’ve been the tiniest glint of amusement in his eyes.

“This,” he said, handing me Tinkerbell, Rufio, and Skipper, “is the easiest group.”

“That feels like a lie,” I said, eyeing the dogs like they were the chaos goblins they were.

“You’ll do fine,” he said—and then he just walked off like I knew what I was doing.

And for the first five minutes? I did. Then Skipper spotted a pigeon. Rufio tried to follow. Tinkerbell got offended they weren’t walking in formation and simply sat down mid-sidewalk like the queen she was.

“Okay,” I muttered, trying to maneuver the leashes while avoiding getting wrapped like a mummy. “Let’s just… move in the same direction, yeah?”

Skipper bolted after the pigeon. Rufio lunged with him. Tinkerbell stayed sitting. The pigeon was unbothered as it casually strutted away before taking off. I managed to stay upright—barely—while spinning in a full circle, trying to untangle leashes. Skipper pouted at me, whimpering like I’d somehow wronged him by letting the pigeon escape.

“ALAN!” I called out to Alan, who was about half a block ahead. He was completely cool as Zeus trotted at his side like a professional.

“You good?” he called, not even turning around.

“I’m being emotionally blackmailed by a terrier!” I shouted back.

That earned me a chuckle. From Alan. Actual, audible amusement. Which, honestly, made the chaos almost worth it.

Eventually, I got them moving again—mostly by bribing Skipper with a treat, coaxing Rufio into a loose heel, and gently pleading with Tinkerbell to pretend gravity didn’t apply to just her.

We finished the loop with all seven dogs accounted for, no injuries, and only minor emotional trauma on my part. As we stopped at the corner where we’d started, Alan gave me a once-over and quirked a brow.

“No one cried,” he said. “Not bad for your first day.”

“Oh, I definitely almost cried,” I said, wiping a smudge of dirt off my knee. “But I figured you’d make me walk a second loop if I did.”

“You figured right,” he nodded.

And then—there it was. A smile. Small, but real. Not one of those polite flickers, either. This one warmed the edges of Alan’s face, softened his eyes, and made my heart do a quiet, traitorous little flutter.

I wasn’t sure what this was yet—just a job, just a walk—but I was sure of one thing: I wanted to come back tomorrow.