“That sounds exhausting. The drowning part.”
“It was.” He meets my eyes briefly, then looks away. “Is. Sometimes still is.”
“Well, I’d offer advice about the lack of book, but since I told you I’m not writing much anymore, that’d be a bit hypocritical.”
“You said you still write though. Sometimes.”
“Fragments. Observations. Shopping lists.” I wave a dismissive hand. “Nothing that adds up to anything.”
“Most things start as fragments.” He shifts his weight, the movement bringing him incrementally closer. The kitchen suddenly feels smaller. “Maybe you’re just collecting pieces. Maybe they’ll fit together eventually.”
“Maybe,” I say.Maybe you should stop looking at me like that.
I take a large gulp of water.
He sets his mug down with a soft clink, finally looks at me. “What’s keeping you up?”
“Oh, you know. Memorial stuff, work, life.” I shrug, staring at the counter, picking at a seam in its edge. “Just one of those nights where your brain won’t shut off.”
“I know those nights,” he says, and something in his voice makes me finally look up. He’s watching me with those dark eyes, and the kitchen suddenly feels too small.
“So this conference,” I say, needing words between us because the silence feels too dangerous. “Then back to Seattle for the semester?”
“That’s the plan.” He’s looking at his papers, not at me. “Late August. Pack up and go.”
Susan’s memorial, then he’s gone shortly after that. Back tohis real life. Back to students and faculty meetings and a world that doesn’t include me.
The thought shouldn’t hurt, but it does.
We stand there, me by the sink, him by his papers, maybe two feet between us but it feels like inches. I can see the rise and fall of his chest. The way his jaw clenches and unclenches like he’s fighting something.
“Well,” I say finally, voice not quite steady. “I should let you work on your presentation. Try to get some sleep.”
His eyes are dark in this light, focused on me with an intensity that makes my skin feel too hot. I watch his hand flex against the counter, watch him swallow hard.
“Yeah.” He clears his throat. “That’s... yeah.”
“Goodnight, Calvin,” I say.
“Night, Maren.”
I make myself walk to the door normally, even though every cell in my body wants to turn back. At the doorway, I glance over my shoulder. He’s still watching me, still gripping that counter like it’s the only thing keeping him in place.
Back in my cabin, I slip inside quietly and crawl back into bed, pulling the covers up to my chin. Laila lifts her head from where she’s sprawled across the foot of the bed, tail thumping a few times in greeting before she settles. She lets out a contented sigh and drops her head back down.
I lie there staring at the ceiling, but sleep is even further away now. My skin still feels too hot, my body wound tight with wanting something I can’t have. All I can think about is the way he looked at me.
Laila’s snoring starts up again, soft and rhythmic. Usually it helps me sleep. Tonight, even that’s not enough to quiet my racing thoughts.
Thursday night at The Black Lantern is quiet. A handful of regulars, a couple of summer people, enough to keep me working but not rushed. Lark sits on a stool at the end of the bar, her injured ankle propped on a milk crate, laptop open as she updates our supplier orders.
Her doctor had cleared her for “part-time, no prolonged standing,” which in Lark’s mind translated to a full shift with strategic sitting. Keeping her off that ankle has been a full-time job in itself.
“I can help pour,” she’d insisted earlier, already reaching for the beer taps.
“You can help by doing the ordering I’ve been putting off for a week,” I’d countered, physically steering her to the stool. “Doctor said minimal standing, not ‘stand until it hurts then sit for five minutes.’”
She’d grumbled but agreed, mostly because we both knew I’d send her home if she pushed it.
