Yes. Call me anytime. Miss you too.
I put the phone away. Emma watches me with a knowing expression—one that says she’s been through some things.
“Long-distance?” she asks.
“Not exactly. He’s just…away for a few days.”
“And you’re climbing the walls?”
“I’m not—” I stop. “Yes. Completely.”
Emma laughs, warm and understanding. “I remember that feeling. When you’re so in love that their absence feels like amissing limb.”
“Were you...?” I glance at the kids inside. “With their dad?”
“Once upon a time.” She adjusts her camera settings, her voice light but with something underneath. “Then I wasn’t. But that’s a story for another day and a lot more wine.”
Jo appears at my elbow. “Speaking of wine—Emma, you should come to book club.”
“Book club?”
“A bunch of us meet every few weeks. Romance novels, wine, life talk. Therapy without the copay.”
Emma’s face lights up. “I haven’t had a book club since I moved. I would love that.”
“Perfect. I’ll text you the details.” Jo glances at the lowering sun. “Now let’s get these photos done before we lose this magic.”
An hour later,Jo has approximately three hundred photos of herself looking radiant against nautical backdrops, and I have a definitive answer on the bouquet: blush peonies with trailing greenery, soft and romantic without being fussy.
We’re packing up when Paul appears on the dockbelow with his son Dawson, carrying a box of popsicles as a peace offering. There’s an exchange about grape popsicles and “relations between vessels resuming,” and I watch Emma and Paul bicker through what is clearly foreplay disguised as hostility.
Jo grabs my arm and steers me toward the parking lot.
“Married,” she whispers. “Before we know it. Mark my words.”
I think about Levi, about how we danced around each other for so long, afraid to admit what we felt, and how much time we wasted.
“I hope they figure it out faster than we did,” I say.
Jo squeezes my arm. “You and Levi are figuring it out now. That’s what matters.”
Are we, though? Or am I just waiting for the other shoe to drop?
Jo dropsme at Mom’s house just as the sun is setting, the sky streaked pink and orange like spilled watercolors.
“You did good today,” she saysthrough the window. “Getting out of the house. Not checking your phone more than seventeen times.”
“It was at least twenty.”
“Progress is progress.” She squeezes my hand. “He’ll come back. That man has been in love with you since before most of us understood what the word meant.”
“I know.”
“Do you? Because you’ve got that expression.”
“What expression?”
“The one that says you’re already planning your escape route.” Her voice is gentle but firm. “I’ve known you for months now. I’ve heard the stories. You run. But maybe this time…don’t?”
