“Why? Do you like to suffer in private?”
“Madelyn.” The full name came out. It rarely did. She grinned, knowing she hit a nerve, and mercifully dropped it. For now.
The thing was, she was not wrong.
Liking Tessa was not the problem. Wanting her was not the problem. The problem was the timing. The weight of everything pressing on her shoulders. The fact that someone was messing with her land, and she did not want to admit it. The fact that I was already too invested, and getting more so by the hour.
The problem was sitting shoulder to shoulder with her while my kid tried to tug us closer with every question.
At some point while we were talking, I realized Tessa’s hand ended up on the bench between us. Mine was resting near my thigh. Another crowd shifted past the end of the booth, and the table bumped slightly. Her fingers slid sideways on the vinyl, brushing my knuckles.
This time, her hand did not jump away.
It settled there. Barely touching. Fingers curled in, the lightest contact.
I told myself it was nothing.
I told myself to leave it alone.
Then her little finger twitched, just the smallest shift, like a hesitant knock.
I exhaled slowly and turned my hand over, palm up.
If she wanted to move away, she could. There was all the space in the world.
Instead, after one long second, I felt her fingertips stroke my palm, like she was tracing a line. Then she slid her hand into mine.
I kept my eyes firmly on my plate. The world narrowed to the feeling of her hand, cool and damp from condensation, sliding against my skin. My fingers closed around hers on instinct.
She laced hers with mine under the table and squeezed once. A quick, desperate little press, like she needed an anchor and hated that it was me.
I could not remember the last time anyone had taken my hand and meant it.
Heat rolled up my arm, into my chest, settled somewhere stubborn.
We sat like that, side by side, shoulders touching, eating fries with our free hands and pretending we were not holding on to each other like a lifeline under the table. Maddy was telling some story about her science teacher and an exploding experiment from last year. I couldn’t have repeated a word of it if someone held a gun to my head.
All I knew was the pressure of Tessa’s fingers curled with mine. The way she stroked her thumb over the side of my hand once, absent-mindedly, like she had forgotten she was doing it. The way my own thumb answered, sliding over the back of her knuckles in a slow, soothing circle.
If she’d pulled away then, I would have let her. I would have said nothing. Instead, she held on a little tighter.
The waitress came back to check on us. I managed to act normally. Barely. Maddy asked for a refill on her milkshake.The girl smiled at us in that soft way people do when they are looking at something they think they understand.
“How are you all doing?” she asked. “Need anything else? Extra napkins, ketchup? This is so cute, out as a family for lunch.” The waitress didn’t read the awkwardness that overtook the booth, before she sighed and looked at the three of us again, before turning to leave.
“She must be new in town,” Maddy said, a frown on her face.
“Kathleen must be hiring her winter staff already,” I answered. Living in a tourist destination meant there were people coming and going all the time. Summer saw campers and hikers. In the winter, skiers, so there was always a revolving door of seasonal employees.
When she walked away, Tessa withdrew her hand from mine, ever so slowly, like she really was conflicted about letting me go.
She stared down at what was left of her burger, shoulders curling in. A flush crept up her neck. The real world came crashing back in. The word family lingered in the wake of the waitress’s joke.
“This was,” she started, then stopped. Her voice came out thin.
“Maddy talks too much,” I said, because humor was easier than whatever was threatening to rise.
“Hey,” my daughter protested.
