A sound from inside. Lily’s at the window, supposedly getting water but obviously checking on us. She waves and disappears.
“Subtle,” Rye says.
“She gets that from you?”
“Shut up.” But she almost smiles.
We sit quietly. After a while, Rye’s hand finds my chair arm. Not holding, just there.
“I should go,” I say, though I don’t want to.
“Probably.”
Neither of us moves.
“Darian?”
“Yeah?”
“This scares the shit out of me.”
“Me too.”
“But maybe being scared isn’t always a reason to stop.”
I turn my hand palm up. She looks at it, then threads her fingers through mine.
“No promises,” she says.
“Just possibility.”
Her thumb moves against mine. “Maybe I can do possibility.”
Lily calls for her mom from inside. Something about needing help finding a book.
“Go,” I tell her. “I’ll see myself out.”
She stands but doesn’t let go right away. “Saturday?”
“What about Saturday?”
“Lily has the talent show. Two o’clock. If you’re not busy.”
“I’m not busy.”
She squeezes my fingers, then lets go. “It’s probably going to be terrible. Camp talent shows always are.”
“I’ll bring earplugs.”
She goes inside, laughing. Through the window, I see her heading down the hall, hear Lily’s voice explaining something about her science report and molecular structures and why Spotify keeps suggesting songs she hates.
This is their life. Their routine. Their world they’ve opened enough to let me see.
I sit on the porch for another minute, listening to their voices drift through the open window. Rye says something I can’t make out, and Lily laughs. It’s domestic and normal and everything I didn’t know I wanted until I was sitting in the middle of it.
The drive home is quiet. I don’t turn on the radio, just drive with the windows down, letting the night air clear my head. At a red light, I check my phone. Text from Zara:How’d it go?
I’d told her about the dinner invitation this morning, couldn’t help myself. She’d immediately started planning our wedding, because that’s what Zara does.
