No mention of forgiveness.
No attempt to turn a gray chair into a declaration.
I put the phone in my pocket.
At home, I unpacked.
Actually unpacked.
Toiletries in the bathroom.
Clean clothes in the dresser.
The magazine went into the bottom drawer beneath a stack of old dive maps.
Annie’s T-shirt remained in the suitcase.
I held it up.
It no longer smelled like her.
It smelled like my parents’ laundry detergent because Mom had washed it while I was in the shower, despite several objections and one warning about fabric care.
I checked the label.
Cold wash.
No dryer.
Mom had been correct.
That was irritating.
I dropped the shirt into the laundry basket with the rest of my clothes.
I made pasta, ate half, and put the remainder in the refrigerator.
At nine, I sat on the porch with my phone facedown beside me.
The island had gone quiet.
Music drifted from an open window down the road. A boat engine started near the marina and faded into the distance.
I turned the phone over.
One message.
Annie:Is texting still allowed tomorrow?
I read it twice.
She had asked.
The rule was simple.
The fact that she had followed it should not have felt significant.
It did.
