For the first time in longer than I care to admit, I fall asleep with a smile on my face.
The whistle works. Sort of.
The first time I blow it, the rooster freezes mid-stride, his beady eyes widening in what looks suspiciously like shock. For one glorious moment, I think I’ve won. Then he lets out an indignant squawk and takes off running, twice as fast as before.
I chase him through Jericho’s yard, whistle between my teeth, blowing furiously every few steps. The rooster zigzags like he’s possessed, feathers flying, but at least he’s running away from me instead of toward me with those sharp talons.
“Gotcha!” I cry as he disappears into the bushes at the farend of the property. It’s not exactly victory, but it feels like progress.
I text Jericho immediately.
The whistle works! Sort of. He runs faster now.
His reply comes an hour later.
That wasn’t the plan.
We fall into a pattern over the next few days. Morning whistle-chasing, texts throughout the day. Nothing profound—just snippets about his work, the weather, the particularly grumpy customer who complained about our coffee being “too coffee-like.” He doesn’t ask about Dick, and I don’t mention how my ex keeps finding excuses to linger at the diner, how his eyes follow me with something darker than the puppy-dog longing everyone assumes.
By the time the weekend arrives, our texts have taken on a rhythm that feels almost… intimate. Like we’re circling closer to something neither of us is ready to name.
Crew’s making good progress. Might be back sooner than expected.
I stare at my phone, trying to decipher what that means. Is he eager to return? To see me?
The rooster will be thrilled.
Just the rooster?
My heart skips. I type and delete three different responses before settling on:
Maybe I’ve gotten used to having someone to chase chickens with at dawn.
His response is quick.
Not a chicken. A demon rooster.
Semantics.
I can almost picture his reluctant smile, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he’s trying not to laugh.
The rooster keeps me entertained for the next few days. I would never have thought that I’d be grateful for his existence. Sometimes I even leave—accidentally, of course—some food in my backyard. For the birds, that is. Not for the rooster. Jericho is right, he’s a demon.
I’m putting a piece of pie on the ground when my phone chimes in with a message.
“Coming home, Nora.”
“About time, Jericho.”
I don’t think my face has ever hurt more from smiling than it does right now.
22
Nora
The sun has long disappeared behind the horizon, and the neighborhood is submerged into darkness. The lights from our two houses are the only things illuminating the quiet street.
I’m sitting in the worn-out chair on the front porch, surrounded by my new orange blanket with ‘Grateful to be’ written in big, black letters. It’s cozy and absolutely perfect for the freezing November air. I’m pretending to be absorbed in the book I brought out here, but my eyes keep drifting to Jericho’s house. To the way the lights illuminate the peeling walls of the house. How his truck is parked in his driveway, giving me comfort that everyone’s home. Which he has been, since he returned home a month ago, and our regular meetings continued.
