“On our past selves,” she said. “The ones who couldn’t imagine this. Sun, boat, sex, plans that extend beyond next week. Feels a little unfair to them.”
“They got us here,” he said. “They deserve to be retired somewhere nice.”
She opened one eye and smiled. “You going to put them in a home by the sea?”
“Maybe,” he said. “Visit them on holidays.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket, disrupting the lazy contentment. He considered ignoring it, then thought of Diaz and shell companies and sighed.
“Sorry,” he said, pulling it out.
A text from Diaz flashed on the screen.
Got that plate back from the state. Your sedan friend is connected to an active case in three states. You and your girl stay visible when you can; avoid isolated parking lots for a bit. Coffee at Harbor Station tomorrow a.m.? I want to loop you in on what we can share.
He showed it to Bree.
Her mouth tightened, but she didn't flinch. “Well,” she said. “That’s one way to bring us back to reality.”
“You okay?” he asked.
She took a breath, letting it out slowly. “Honestly? Yeah,” she said. “I mean, I’m not thrilled there’s a multi-state case attached to our shadow, but I’d rather know than pretend.”
“Awareness, not paranoia,” he said.
“Exactly,” she said.
He typed a quick reply.
We’ll be there. And we’ll stick to well-lit, populated places.
He slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at her. “We can head in if you want,” he said. “I don’t want you to feel exposed out here.”
She glanced around; the cove was still as quiet as it had been, the only other boat a distant speck near the horizon.
“I feel safer here with you than I did in my own apartment a month ago,” she said. “Let’s steal a little more time before we go back in. Diaz has us; we’re not alone in this.”
He nodded, some of the tension easing. “Deal,” he said.
They sat there together, watching the light play on the water, talking about small things: paint colors, tool brands, whether Brian would survive if they banned neon in the shop. They argued, cheerfully, about the merits of teal in a bathroom; he lost, mostly willingly.
On the ride back in, Bree sat at the bow, hair whipping in the wind, one hand curved around the rail. She looked back at him over her shoulder, joy clear on her face; the sight lodged in his chest like a promise.
At the dock, he helped her out of the boat and returned the keys. The teenager barely looked up, mumbling “have a nice day” as he shoved the clipboard into a plastic bin.
They walked along the harbor path toward town, hands brushing, then twining. The sounds of Copper Moon grew louder with each step; kids shouting near the fountain, someone busking with a guitar, the clink of dishes from café patios.
“Tomorrow,” Bree said, “we talk to Diaz and hear how big this thing really is.”
“Yeah,” he said.
“After that,” she went on, “we go back to the warehouse and argue about whether the shop bathroom can be teal.”
He smiled. “I thought we settled that.”
“We settled that I’m right,” she said. “You’ll come around.”
He laughed. “Probably.”
