I was cataloguing her. Memorizing her. And she was doing the same to me.
Maude was in the middle of a story about a storm in '03 when she suddenly stopped mid-sentence, set down her fork, and pushed back from the table with a huff that was half exasperation, half amusement.
"All right," she said, looking between us with the kind of knowing expression that made me feel about sixteen years old. "I can't take it anymore."
Hazel froze. "What?"
"You two." Maude waved a hand between us. "If it's all right with you both, you can stop pretending there's nothing going on. I was young once, too, you know. And I'm old now, not blind."
The silence that followed was excruciating.
Then Hazel let out a sound that was half laugh, half mortified groan, and buried her face in her hands. "Oh, my God."
I felt heat crawl up the back of my neck—actual embarrassment, something I hadn't experienced in years. "Maude, I?—"
She held up a hand, still smiling. "I'm not your mother, and this isn't my business. But watching you two moon at each other over barbecue is exhausting. So just … be yourselves, would you? Life's too short for all that tiptoeing."
Hazel peeked out from between her fingers, face still flaming. "I'm so sorry."
"Don't be sorry, dear." Maude stood, gathering her plate with the ease of someone who'd said her piece and was done with it. "Be happy. Lord knows this house could use some happiness."
She carried her dishes to the sink, rinsed them efficiently, then turned back to us with a softer expression. "I'll leave you two to clean up. My shows are on, and I've got a date with my recliner."
"Maude—" Hazel started.
"Goodnight," Maude said firmly, already heading for the back door that led to her apartment. She paused in the doorway, glancing back with a smile. "And Gideon? The headboard in Room 4 is solid oak. It'll hold."
The door closed behind her before either of us could respond.
Hazel stared at the space where Maude had been, then slowly turned to look at me. For a long moment, we just sat there. Then she started laughing—a real laugh, the kind that shook her shoulders and made her eyes water.
I couldn't help it. I joined her.
We cleaned up together, still grinning like idiots, bumping hips and shoulders as we moved around the small kitchen. She washed, I dried. The silence between us now was comfortable, easy, punctuated by the clink of dishes and the soft splash of water.
When the last plate was put away, Hazel opened the freezer and pulled out a carton of vanilla ice cream. She grabbed two coffee mugs from the cabinet—mismatched, one with a faded lighthouse, the other advertising a seafood shack that probably didn't exist anymore—and scooped generous portions into each.
"Fancy," I said.
"We're out of bowls," she admitted, handing me one. "And I didn't feel like washing more dishes."
"Coffee mugs are perfect."
We took our ice cream out onto the porch, settling onto the swing that hung from chains at the far end. The evening had cooled, the air thick with salt and the green smell of the marsh. Crickets sang in the reeds. Somewhere in the distance, the ocean murmured its endless conversation with the shore.
I sat first, the swing creaking gently under my weight. Hazel settled beside me, close enough that our thighs touched, and the simple contact felt more intimate than it had any right to.
We ate in silence, rocking slowly back and forth, the chains above us groaning their soft rhythm. The ice cream was sweet and cold, melting faster than we could eat it in the humid air. I couldn't remember the last time I'd sat on a porch swing. Couldn't remember the last time I'd wanted to.
My soul felt calm.
It was such a strange sensation that it took me a moment to recognize it. No restlessness pulling at my edges. No urge to move, to disappear, to put distance between myself and anything that felt too much like staying. Just this: the swing's gentle rock, the taste of vanilla, the warmth of her beside me.
Peace.
I didn't trust it. But I wanted to.
"What do you want to get done tomorrow?" I asked, breaking the comfortable quiet.
