A splash of milk cost $0.30.
Two slices of toast cost $0.80.
I even timed my showers.
On Wednesday, I went in for 11 minutes, so I wrote down $1.50.
By Friday night, the whole thing had become almost funny.
Ryan sent pictures from Portugal, including beaches, drinks, and Steph beside a pool.
Under one photo, he wrote, “Dogs behaving?”
I replied, “Perfectly.”
He sent a thumbs-up, with no mention of the list and no “thank you” beyond that.
They were due home Sunday around 4:30 p.m.
On Saturday, I cleaned the house properly, even better than I’d found it.
I removed the dog hair, changed the sheets, ran the dishwasher, wiped down the kitchen, and emptied the trash.
On Sunday, I took Bear and Nell on one final walk and fed them early enough that Ryan wouldn’t have to do it when he got home.
Then I arranged the kitchen island the way you’d set it for a guest.
Ryan’s laminated price list went back exactly where he’d left it, square to the edge, with the spare key on top.
Beside it, I placed an envelope with his name printed neatly across the front.
Inside was something I’d spent two nights putting together.
I checked it once more before sealing it.
Then I let myself out at 3:00 p.m. and took the long way home so I wouldn’t be there when their cab arrived.
At 4:52 p.m., my phone rang.
It was Ryan.
I answered. “Hi.”
There was no hello.
“What the hell is this?”
I knew exactly what Ryan was holding.
Still, I asked, “What’s what?”
“This thing you’ve left on the island.”
Behind him, I could hear Bear barking with excitement and Steph saying something I couldn’t make out.
“The envelope?” I asked.
“Yes, Julia. The envelope.”
“Oh. That’s my running total.”
Silence followed.
Then Ryan said, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
I sat down at my friend’s kitchen table.
“I’m not.”
Paper rustled on his end.
“You’ve sent me an invoice.”
“Yes.”
“An actual invoice for dog-sitting?”
“You wanted everything accounted for.”
I’d spent two evenings making it.
For the first few days, I’d genuinely tried to let the laminated sheet go.
But every time I poured milk into a coffee and remembered I supposedly owed my brother $0.30 for it while caring for his elderly dog, the absurdity became harder to ignore.
So, if Ryan wanted everything accounted for, I decided everything would be accounted for.
“What is this?” he demanded. “Dog walking, $600?”
“Forty walks.”
“You’re my sister!”
“Correct.”
“You cannot charge me $15 every time you walk my dogs!”
“Why not?”
“Because you agreed to look after them!”
“And you agreed I was doing you a favor.”
I heard paper rustling.
“Medication administration, $100?”
“Bear needs medication twice a day. That’s 20 doses at $5 each.”
“Putting cheese around a pill takes ten seconds!”
“Then the boarding place should have done it for free.”
He went silent before continuing.
“Overnight pet sitting, $400. What does that even mean?”
“Ten nights at $40.”
“You were staying here!”
“To care for your dogs.”
“You needed somewhere to stay!”
“No, Ryan. I already had somewhere to stay.”
That was the part he’d never seemed willing to understand.
My friend’s spare room wasn’t permanent, but I wasn’t homeless, and I hadn’t asked Ryan for a place to stay.
He had needed someone, and I had helped him.
Somehow, he’d turned that into a favor he was doing for me.
He scoffed. “And $60 for cleaning?”
“I cleaned the house better than I found it.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
“Fine. Cross that one out.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“Keep going.”
“What?”
“There are more pages.”
I heard him flipping through them.
I’d itemized dog walking, medication, overnight care, cleaning, and $40 in mileage for all the extra driving.
The total came to exactly $1,200.
Below it was a section labeled “Guest Expenses.”
Ryan went quiet when he reached it.
I’d recorded every cup of coffee, serving of milk, slice of bread, egg, both loads of laundry, and, yes, the 11-minute shower.
My expenses came to $18.70.
Then I deducted them from his bill.
Balance due: $1,181.30.
“You’re actually expecting me to pay this?”
I smiled.
“Don’t be weird about it. It’s just so nobody’s out of pocket.”
“Very funny.”
“It’s your system.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“It literally is. You laminated it.”
“This is completely different.”
“How?”
“Because those are professional rates!”
“And?”
“You’re not a professional dog sitter.”
“No. I’m your sister who gave up ten days of her time because Bear doesn’t settle with strangers.”
He lowered his voice.
“You’re being petty.”
That word annoyed me more than I expected.
“Ryan, you told me I was saving you $600.”
“So?”
“So, you knew my help had monetary value when it benefited you.”
He didn’t answer.
“But when I drank your coffee, suddenly every penny mattered.”
“It’s about principle.”
“Exactly.”
That shut him up.
For a moment, all I heard was Bear panting somewhere near the phone.
Then Steph spoke in the background.
“Just leave it, Ryan.”
He snapped, “I’m talking to my sister.”
I almost laughed.
He’d spent ten days in Portugal, come home to two happy dogs and a spotless house, and somehow, he was still the injured party.
“I don’t actually want $1,181.30 from you,” I said.
