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I twist around in my seat. There are no other vehicles, no animals on the road, nothing in the mirrors but trees I can barely make out. The dash lights are off. The heater’s off. In about ninety seconds, I’m going to feel it.

He goes out to the middle of the road and stops with his back to me, head turned to one side, and stands there.

I watch him in the mirror and count to sixty.

I’m about to get out and ask him what he’s doing when he turns around and walks back to the van.

“Thought I saw something,” he says, starting the engine. We pull out and drive home. Neither of us mentions it, that night or any night after, and I add it to the list of things I don’t ask about.

We’re finding our way back to that place where we bickered for fun and worked as a team.

He starts bringing me coffee again, just the way I like it, and comes to the cafe each night to collect me and the refreshments, and we walk back to the tour office together, which is new. We talk, well, mostly I talk, but we’ve found a frequency where we’re both comfortable enough.

And he stays exactly three feet away from me at all times, like there’s a circle marked on the ground that follows him around.

I’ve fashioned it into something I can live with. He regrets the festival. He’s decided to be decent about it, and this careful, courteous, three-feet-away Nick is what I get.

It’s fine. I can work with fine.

An email comes in while I’m eating cereal for breakfast at four in the afternoon.

Miss Ashford. Eight hundred words on the economic impact of the Fall Festival on the local businesses, by Thursday. I make no promises about running it. R. Thorndale.

Last week, I found the courage to write an email asking if the Chronicle ever took freelance pieces, and let it sit in drafts for two days. When I pressed send, I tossed my phone on the bed like it might explode.

Eight hundred words. By Thursday.

I get out my notebook, turn to a clean page, and print FALL FESTIVAL across the top in capital letters. Then I sit there grinning at my bowl of cereal until it goes soggy.

I don’t tell Nick. This is mine until I try it on for size, feel it out without anyone giving me their opinion on it.

The next afternoon, I’m up earlier than usual, halfway through an outline for my article when Marthe calls.

“Sorry to ask, honey, but could you come in for a couple of hours? Tess needs to pick up Isaac from daycare. He’s got a fever.”

I’m ready to say of course I can, but then there’s my story, half of it scribbled out in my notebook. I need to get this pieced together if I’m going to make the deadline Roslyn set.

“I…can’t at the moment. I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem, completely understand. It was very short notice.”

“I wish I could.”

“It’s totally fine. Thanks, honey. I’ll see if Luca’s free.” She hangs up.

I want to run downstairs and apologize to her for a solid ten minutes. It would’ve been tough but I could’ve made it work, still found time for the article and two shifts with Nick tonight. And it would’ve made me anxious and exhausted.

Saying no was the right choice, but I hate disappointing Marthe.

After another night of double tours, we pull into a gas station before the climb back to Ravenslight. The forecourt is the only thing lit for twenty miles, a white box of light with nothing but black on every side of it. Nick goes in to pay while I stay cocooned in the van.

I watch through the window as he stops halfway back, looking into the dark, past the dumpsters, listening. Something he’s been doing a lot lately. He returns with coffee and a tub of ice cream.

“Gimme.” I perk up, eager to take that coffee off his hands. “It’s like four below, and you want ice cream?”

“Trust me. Ice cream when it’s cold is the best. Besides, you get coffee as well.”

He gives me the cup, and my fingers brush his. No matter the temperature, he always feels the same. I’ve had thoughts about that. Several.