Chapter thirty-nine
George
The morning air is cool even inside. I breathe it in and feel the strangeness of having Eleanor's wedding finally behind me.
"Sit," I say. Baxter's backside hits the floor, his tail wagging nonstop.
Eleanor's somewhere over the Atlantic with Daniel right now, probably already bickering over the window shade, and that thought makes me smile because it means she's happy.
The tighter relief is the one I haven't said out loud yet. The coil of uncertainty that's been living behind my sternum is simply gone. What's left in its place is something lighter and more alarming.
Baxter detonates forward the second I touch the door handle and nearly dislocates my shoulder. Four blocks to the dog park, and he walks every one of them like he's been promised something holy at the end. I let him pull me along and think about how, for once, I actually agree with him.
She'd texted at half past eleven last night:I'll be there by ten. Save me a spot under the tree.I'd read it three times in the darkof my bedroom, staring up at the ceiling with my phone on my chest, smiling in a way I was glad no one could see.
The park gate clanks open and Baxter surges through, and then stops dead. Ears forward. Head up. I follow his gaze across the grass.
She's already there.
Tessa is sitting with her back against the oak, ankles crossed, face tipped up toward the light filtering through the leaves. She's got a paper cup of coffee in one hand and she's not looking at us yet, and I get four full seconds of watching her without her knowing. Long enough to notice the way the light catches her hair.
Baxter, who apparently also has opinions about the tree, spots her in the same moment she finally raises her hand in a small wave toward us, and something in my chest does something I refuse to examine too closely.
He makes the executive decision to close the distance at maximum speed. "Baxter." I start, but the leash snaps taut and suddenly I'm jogging whether I'd planned to or not, dragged along by my ecstatic dog who has completely abandoned any pretense of dignity.
She's already laughing before he reaches her, arms open, bracing herself against the tree, and then he hits her at roughly the velocity of a very affectionate freight train. She absorbs the impact with a genuinely heroic grunt and then he shoves his enormous head against her collarbone and stays there. Like she's the only stable thing in the world.
I reach them a few seconds later, slightly winded and with considerably less grace than I'd intended.
"He has no manners," I say.
"He has excellent manners." She doesn't look up from Baxter, who is making a sound close to a moan. "He's just enthusiastic."
I reach down to help her up and her hand fits into mine, warm from the coffee cup, and I don't let go right away. She notices; I can see it in the quick flick of her eyes up to my face, a small assessment happening behind them. Then she doesn't let go either, and that's enough of an answer for now.
Baxter huffs loudly between our ankles, profoundly unimpressed.
We start walking the perimeter path, the morning still quiet enough that our footsteps sound distinct on the gravel. She tells me about Callie ringing her twice during the reception, demanding a complete report from someone who actually had eyes on the situation.
"What did you tell her?" I ask.
She glances sideways at me, a look with a smile underneath it. "That the food was excellent. And that we made up. There may have been speeches." A pause. "But what I remember most is our kiss."
I feel that settle somewhere low in my ribs and take a careful breath through my nose.
We talk about the wedding. Things like Eleanor's dress, Daniel's speech, the aunt who'd cried through the entirety of the first dance. I find myself noticing the way Tessa moves her hands when she's relaxed, wide and unguarded, completely different from the careful composure she'd worn when we'd still been circling around each other.
"You seem calmer," she says, tilting her head slightly, studying me the way she does when she's decided to actually pay attention.
"There are fewer stressors now that the wedding is over," I say.
She goes quiet for a beat that's exactly one beat too long. "Is that what I am to you? A stressor?"
"You're one I'm hoping to keep," I say, and I mean it more than the words quite manage to carry.
She looks at the path ahead instead of at me.
"A long-term stressor?" she asks, her voice doing that thing where it goes carefully light.
