“The early bird gets the...poetry recommendations.”
Sigmund lands on the sand between us and squawks.
“Your friend doesn't seem convinced,” Scott observes.
“Sigmund is a harsh critic.”
“You named the seagull?”
“He started it by following me. Now we're in a therapeutic relationship.”
A smile tugs at Scott's mouth—an actual smile, not his usual corporate smirk—and something in my chest does a gymnastics routine.
“May I join you?” he asks, gesturing to the log. “Or is this a private session?”
“Sigmund doesn't mind an audience.”
I sit on the far end of the driftwood log, which in retrospect is a tactical error because now I'm acutely aware of the three feet of space between us and how easy it would be to close that distance and also how absolutely I should not be thinking about closing that distance.
We sit in silence. The waves roll in. Sigmund waddles between us like a feathered chaperone.
“So,” I say brightly, “lovely morning for existential crisis beach walks.”
“Is that what this is?”
“Isn't it always?” I wrap my arms around my knees. “What brings you to my therapy log at ungodly o'clock?”
“Couldn't sleep.”
“Join the club. We meet every morning at dawn. Membership requirements include questionable life choices and the inability to process feelings like a normal person.”
“I think I qualify.”
“Your application is under review.”
Another almost-smile. We're racking them up today.
Sigmund waddles closer, clearly invested in this interaction. A few of his seagull friends have joined us too. We're collecting an audience.
The silence stretches. Which is ridiculous. We've been in three planning meetings together this week. I should be able to make small talk with the man.
But planning meetings have agendas. Structure. Other people in the room.
This is just us. And seagulls.
“You're up early,” I finally say. “No spreadsheets to update? Revenue projections to obsess over?”
“I could ask you the same thing. No books to alphabetize? Cat to argue with?”
“Austen and I had a disagreement about breakfast. I needed space.”
“You argued with your cat.”
“He started it.”
Something flickers across his face—amusement, maybe—before he tucks it away.
More silence. The waves fill it.
