And Quinn’s.You came back.
I exhale slowly.“Okay.”
When I look up, something in Tucker’s face shifts.Not surprise exactly.More like satisfaction held tightly in check.“Okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, even though nerves are already fluttering through my stomach.“We’ll go.”
He nods once.“Good.”
Quinn comes running back into the kitchen at that exact moment, backpack bouncing against her shoulders.
“Go where?”
Tucker glances at me.I smile despite myself.“The spring festival.”
Quinn gasps so dramatically I’m pretty sure the whole neighborhood heard it.And just like that, it’s real.I’m going to the spring festival with Tucker Bostic.And I have absolutely no idea what I’m doing.
TWELVE
MELLOW
By the fourth night, I learn the rhythm of Lucy Coe’s house.Not in a creepy way.At least that’s what I tell myself.There’s a difference between watching and paying attention, and I’m hanging my whole conscience on that distinction.
The first morning she caught me sleeping on her porch was probably nothing alarming.The second, she nearly lost it.Her guard came up.Not what I wanted to happen.I didn’t think this through.I have been nothing but reacting.
The third night was close.I woke to the soft scrape of her curtain shifting in the front window, grabbed my duffle, and was off the porch and around the side yard before she made it to the front door with her coffee.Still close enough to see her crack the door open and look around with sleepy confusion, mug in hand, robe tied at the waist, morning light catching in her hair.
Close enough to feel a grin tug at my mouth like an idiot.
So now I know.She wakes early.She makes coffee first.Stands at the front window before she opens the door.
And if I’m going to keep giving myself this peace-of-mind bullshit excuse—and it is bullshit, at least partly—I need to stop making her think I’ve lost my whole damn mind sleeping on her porch every night.
Which is why, two days later, I’m gone before the sky fully lightens.This plan keeps things easier.
I still park the bike half a road over and walk the rest.Still settle into the dark stretch of porch outside her front door after the house goes quiet.Still sleep light, one ear tuned to the road, the windows, the shift of the lock if she opens the door in the night.
But now I leave before six.And then I circle back like I just happened to be in the area around breakfast.
It’s a lie so thin it ought to embarrass me.It doesn’t.Frankly if she asks I’ll tell her the truth.I’m here because it gnaws at me to leave her alone at night.I want her to sleep easy.
This morning, like the two mornings before it, Lucy opens the door while I’m walking up the path, coffee mug in one hand, cardigan pulled over one of those soft sleep shirts she wears around the house.Her eyes narrow immediately.
“You’re becoming suspiciously available in the mornings.”
I hold up the sack in my hand.“Brought breakfast.”
Her gaze drops to it.Then back to me.
“That is not an explanation.”
“It’s sausage and gravy,” I state not getting into more details.“I gotta eat, you gotta eat.Quinn needs to have a good start to her day.Way I see it, we can do it together.”
That earns me the smallest twitch at the corner of her mouth, and that little thing has become my favorite kind of trouble.Behind her, Quinn’s voice carries down the hall.
“Mama!I can’t find my other shoe!”
Lucy closes her eyes for one beat.“Come in.”
