Dater's Handbook. Cara Lockwood

      Early morning light crept over the snowcapped Rocky Mountains just as I hit mile three on my daily run down my favorite park trail, the crisp fall breeze cool across my face, my breath coming out in small, tiny puffs. Duke trotted beside me, his big pink tongue lolling out of his mouth, tail wagging as fast as his paws moved. He glanced up at me, loving this as much as I did. Duke was—hands down—the best golden retriever to ever live on this planet. Loyal, sweet, and he’d run longer than I did if I let him. I turned up REO Speedwagon on my ancient white iPod, a smile crossing my face as I mouthed the next line to “Can’t Fight This Feeling.”

      Dated? Yep. Cheesy? Probably. But also the most amazing band ever? Truth. I challenge anyone to hear REO Speedwagon and not sing along. It’s just not possible. I grew up with REO blaring in my parents’ cars, and every time I heard them, it took me right back to that place, feet dangling in the backseat, the whole family singing as loudly as we could.

      Peter—my, uh, boyfriend? He was odd with labels, so let’s just call him the guy I’d been hanging out with for the last two years—always said I needed to get with the times. Ditch my iPod and 80s rock ballads. I liked them, though. They were comfortable, worn-in, familiar. They made me happy, and I knew better than anyone that happiness could disappear in an instant. I read somewhere once that the most fulfilled people were the ones who stopped and smelled the roses, the ones who accepted that sometimes life wasn’t a bunch of breathtaking moments, but a whole bunch of little contented moments. Like running on my favorite trail, listening to my favorite band, with my favorite dog. My fitness watch beeped at me, announcing the fact that I’d hit 5K. I left the trail and climbed up on an outcropping of rocks, grinning. Duke hopped up with me, tongue out, panting. He knew the drill. We did this every time. I plucked the earbuds out of my ears because this show didn’t need a soundtrack. Then, as if on cue, the sun came up from behind the Boulder foothills, breaking free of the highest peak, bathing the snow in warm, pink light.

      “Now, look,” I told Duke. “Isn’t that gorgeous? I mean, the mountains are pretty, sure, but even they need good lighting.”

      Duke blinked at me, not caring that I’d quoted my dad, something I’d been doing a lot lately. Probably because his birthday would have been this month—except he’d died ten years ago. My father had been one of my favorite people in the world, and then…overnight, he just…disappeared. Gone. No more corny jokes. No more lip-syncing to awesomely bad 80s music. No more big bear hugs.

      I shook myself. Sunrise, remember? Gorgeous view, straight ahead. The kind of thing most everybody else just got to see in postcards and Sierra Club calendars. I had a front row view. I took another deep breath, the thin, cold air filling my lungs, already burning from the exercise. Who needed anything more than this? Seriously, though. Just breathe. This was all I needed. Or…maybe…someone to share it with. Someone other than a dog. I could call Peter, but he never got out of bed before ten. Owning a bar and managing it was a night gig. Besides, I knew already he didn’t much care about nature, about this.

      Duke whined, snapping me out of my nature-induced revelry. I glanced down at my golden retriever with his sad brown eyes, who sat still, patiently waiting. I knew what he wanted. The sunrise might be my favorite part of our daily ritual, but going off-leash was his. I stooped down and set him loose, letting him run the last twenty yards to the car, stopping to sniff every tree along the way.

      As I opened the passenger side door, Duke leapt in, tag wagging. A good life that dog led, no question. I slid into the driver’s seat and took one last look at the mountains ahead of me. The view this morning reminded me of a photograph my sister, Nadia, kept of our parents. It was taken long before they had us, but in it, they were sitting on a ledge, Rocky Mountains in the background, decked out in early ’80s clothes. Mom wore acid-wash pleated jeans, with her hair frosted, and Dad sported a baseball shirt and bright white Nikes. Their faces told the story: so happy then, so in love.

      I exhaled and instantly looked for something to do, a distraction from feeling. I didn’t like the feels. Not when it came to sad things like Dad. I focused on fixing my dark ponytail, which was beginning to slide out of its tie. Then I started up the car and backed out of the spot. In a blink, we were at my condo. I pulled into the garage and let Duke lead me up the stairs by his leash to my loft, a recently renovated, completely Pottery Barn-furnished, two-bedroom condo I was insanely proud of. Never mind that I’d been living here four years already; I loved the dazzling white kitchen, the granite countertops, the wrap-around island, the gleaming pine floors, and the wood-burning fireplace. I bought this loft with my own money, money earned from my company, CB Branding. Every time I walked through my front door, I felt a little swell of pride.

      I slipped inside, dropped my keys on my foyer table in the gleaming bowl, and let Duke off his leash.