“Thank you.”
Harry watches her for a second longer, then shrugs. “Figured it oughta go to someone who might understand that kind of growing.”
I don’t say a thing, because this woman has killed every plant she’s ever owned. Overwatered them, forgot the sun, left them to wilt on windowsills between night shifts.
But she’s holding this little pot of Adele’s ivy differently, like she’s taken Harry’s words seriously.
It’s the tough stuff that keeps growing no matter what.
That’s Carina, too.
She doesn’t say much on the walk back to the truck, just climbs in, sets the ivy pot on her lap, and rests her palm over the curve of her stomach.
I let the silence stretch, but as I pull onto the road, she fills it.
“You built that treehouse.”
It’s not a question.
“Yeah.”
“At nine.”
“Yep.”
She’s quiet again. “For someday.”
My jaw ticks. “Didn’t realize he remembered that part—was just a kid thing.”
“It’s sweet.” Her voice is soft, barely audible over the hum of the tires. “I just didn’t take you for that kinda kid.”
“What kind’s that?”
Her eyes flick to mine. “The kind who hopes.”
That silences me good and proper, but my hand finds hers across the console, and she doesn’t let go. We drive for a few more blocks before she shifts in her seat.
“I need a burger.”
My brows lift. “That was abrupt.”
“Your grandfather emotionally destabilized me. I need something greasy and unreasonable.”
I try not to smile. “You sure the baby doesn’t want a kale smoothie?”
She turns slowly. “Do I look like I want a kale smoothie?”
“No, you look like you’re about to commit a felony if I don’t pull into that diner on the corner.”
“That’s the one.”
We order at the counter. She wants pickles, but not touching the tomato, and the bun has to be toasted but not “annoyingly crunchy,” whatever the hell that means, and by the time we sit down, she’s already unwrapping the ketchup packets like she’s in surgery.
“Careful,” I warn. “That form’s a little too familiar. You’re gonna start talking in abbreviations.”
“I’ll page you a trauma consult if you keep chirping me.”
I smirk and watch her squeeze a wobbly line of ketchup across the inside of the top bun.
