At the end of the market, we bought lemonade and sat on the seawall.
Annie lifted her face toward the sun.
“You’re good with kids,” I said.
“I’ve had practice.”
“Siblings?”
“Fans.”
I turned toward her.
“You have eight-year-old fans?”
“Some.”
“Enough to develop birthday-party crowd control?”
She smiled into her drink.
“I perform.”
“You said that.”
“Children are honest audiences.”
“How?”
“If they’re bored, they turn around.”
“That would be useful at adult concerts.”
“Adults are better at pretending.”
Something about the way she said concerts caught my attention.
Before I could ask, she pointed at my wrist.
“You like it?”
“The bracelet?”
“No, the public humiliation at the market.”
“Deeply.”
She bumped her shoulder against mine.
A boat passed slowly through the marina.
The air smelled like salt, sunscreen, and fried dough from a nearby stall.
This was what worried me.
Not the unanswered questions.
Not Rachel.
