“Terms are: you drink this, I stop pretending I don’t appreciate the help.”
“Fair trade.”
We stand shoulder to shoulder against the rail, watching the tide roll in. The coffee’s hot, the silence easy—almost.
She glances sideways. “So what’s the catch? You fixing roofs for every woman in town now?”
“Just the ones with literary merit.”
Her lips curve. “Smooth.”
“Occupational hazard.”
“Football or flirting?”
“Both require good aim.”
That earns another laugh, and for a second, it feels like the years between us shrink down to nothing. The wind catches a loose strand of her hair, and without thinking, I reach out and tuck it behind her ear. My fingers brush her skin—soft, warm, real.
She goes still, eyes lifting to mine, and the air thickens.
One wrong move and we’re both going to regret it.
I drop my hand and step back just enough to breathe. “You should probably have someone look at the flashing beforethe next storm. A dozen people in town with deep pockets would help you.”
She exhales slowly, the sound half laugh, half something else. “You volunteering?”
“Maybe.”
Her gaze lingers a heartbeat longer than it should. “You always did like playing hero.”
“Yeah,” I say quietly. “Didn’t work out so well last time.”
She doesn’t answer, and she doesn’t have to. We both hear the echo of that gym full of laughter, the paper note crumpled in my fist, and the way I didn’t defend her.
A gull cries overhead, sharp and lonely.
I clear my throat. “Thanks for the coffee.”
She nods. “Thanks for the temporary roof.”
I start toward the truck, every step heavier than it should be. When I glance back, she’s still on the porch, watching the horizon like it might tell her what to do with me.
The sky over Otter Creek turns that strange gold-lavender color it only gets in early fall. I drive the long way home, windows down, salt air rolling through the cab, trying to shake off the sound of her laughter. It clings to me like sawdust. The day passes in a blur.
By the time I hit the gravel road to the farmhouse, my coffee’s cold and my pulse still hasn’t slowed.
Moths orbit the illuminated porch light bulb like it’s the moon. Mom’s already inside. I can hear music—Fleetwood Mac, her “cooking therapy” playlist. The screen door groans when I push it open.
“You’re late,” she calls from the kitchen.
“I didn’t know there was a curfew.”
“There is when you miss dinner.”
“I was fixing something.”
She pokes her head around the corner, spatula in hand. “Fixing or avoiding?”
