I grabbed my jacket and headed out before I could change my mind.
Scout was in the passenger seat, tail wagging when he saw me. Caleb leaned across to open the door.
"Hey," he said.
"Hey."
I climbed in with Daisy. The cab smelled like sawdust and coffee. Scout nosed Daisy's face, and the two of them settled between us, tails thumping.
We drove toward town, the morning light sharp and cold. Caleb didn't fill the silence with small talk, and I was grateful for it. Just the hum of the engine, the dogs panting softly.
Mae's Coffee came into view, same faded awning it had had since I was a kid, the usual Saturday crowd packed inside. Caleb slowed, looking for parking.
Then I saw it. The patrol car, parked right out front.
I noticed my hands were in fists. I didn't remember doing that.
Caleb pulled into a spot and put the truck in park. The engine idled. He looked out the windshield for a moment, taking in the street, the coffee shop, the patrol car. Then he looked at me.
"We don't have to go here," he said.
I looked over at him. His expression was calm, like he'd just suggested changing the radio station.
"There's the diner," he said. "Or we could drive over to Coopersville. They've got that new place."
I nodded, but the thought of sitting in a crowded room right now made my chest tight.
Scout whined softly, shifting between us. Caleb looked down at him, then at me. "Or we could head back to my place. I've got coffee, and the dogs could run around, burn off some energy."
He wasn't looking at me anymore, just scratching Scout behind the ears, like this was purely a practical consideration.
He made it easy to say yes.
"Your place," I said. "That sounds good."
He nodded once, shifted into reverse, and pulled back out onto Main Street.
Neither of us mentioned the patrol car.
We drove in silence, the town falling away behind us. Fields on either side, scattered houses, the road quiet.
"It's my grandmother's place," he said after a few minutes. "She left it to me when she passed. Been fixing it up for the past two years."
"You're living there?"
"Yeah. Workshop's out back. House needs a lot of work, but the bones are good."
I looked over at him, comfortable behind the wheel, and realized I was comfortable too.
"I'd like to see it," I said.
"Good," he said. "Because we're here."
The farmhouse satat the end of a long gravel driveway, white clapboard siding gone gray with age, a porch that wrapped around the front and sagged slightly on one side. But the roof looked new, and the windows were clean. Behind the house, a barn-style workshop sat with its wide doors open.
Caleb let the dogs out first. They bolted across the yard, immediately tangling together in a play-fight that sent them rolling through the grass.
"Coffee's in the workshop," he said. "I was working this morning."
