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“Fucking smart-ass,” he grumbled under his breath. “You said last night that we should focus on the things that make us feel alive.”

Her eyes widened. “I did?”

He grinned. “You don’t remember, miss I had a little too much to drink?”

She hummed, her cheeks flushing. “Remind me. What makes you feel alive, Archer Vincent?”

He leaned back, eyes out to the lake. “Being on the water. Making cocktails. Hearing my brother laugh. Hanging out with you.” He turned his face to hers. “Really anything with you.”

She leaned back as well, crossing her arm over his and tilting her face to the sun, the ghost of a smile on her lips.

“What makes you feel alive, Theresa Richards?”

Her smile widened. “Sailing.”

Archer knocked his arm against hers. “Feeling ready yet?”

She released a long breath, letting her mind drift to her father. What would he be doing on a morning such as this? He’d probably be right here on the dock, sipping on a coffee with Mom, maybe even having a conversation similar to this one. Or he’d be readying the sails, getting ready to take her out on the water.

The thought of her father and this place no longer made her feel like she wanted to scream and run. It felt like a balm on her soul. A patching of her heart. A coming home.

“Almost,” she whispered. “Almost.”

Besides the obscene amount of vodka they consumed the first night, Tea’s days with Archer progressed in similar ways. She woke up to coffee and breakfast, which they would take down to the dock and talk about anything and nothing. He told her more about what happened at Hermes Lounge, about how he was worried they wouldn’t take him back.

“Archer, come one. They know it’s not your fault.”

His face pinched into disappointment. “Do they?”

“Have you spoken to them at all? Since March?”

He shook his head. “Not really. Just a little bit about their plans to expand outdoor seating and maybe open things up this fall.”

“See? They’re keeping you in the loop. I don’t think they would do that if they were planning on firing you.”

“Yeah…I guess you’re right.”

They also talked about his plans to open up his own spot in Minneapolis. He admitted the only thing holding him back was figuring out all of the logistics—applying for a business and liquor license, figuring out taxes and payroll. Tea listened, making lists in her head on how she could make all of that so much easier for him. Then she caught herself. What could she possibly offer him if her plan was to go back to the east coast?

After breakfast, which was a two-hour affair every morning, they would get to work on something—anything to keep them occupied and busy and not thinking about the outbreak around them. Archer didn’t work on the property, intent on keeping his distance from everyone quarantining, so they tackled the things in his cabin. She sewed the ripped couch cushions while he changed the lightbulbs, swapping bright white lights with warmer golden ones. They sanded down the spots of chipped paint, then primed his living room using paint they found in the resort’s storage shed. They only had two options for a color so he let her choose. She went with a muted sandy hue that she felt softened the room. Archer clicked on one of their old shared playlists of high school hits—Ed Sheeran, Maroon 5, Mumford and Sons, Lumineers, Alabama Shakes—and sang along to the lyrics, using paint brushes as microphones. He accidentally splattered her with paint during a guitar riff, so she got back at him moments later by rolling a streak on the back of his T-shirt. All-out war ensued, leaving them covered in paint and bright with laughter.

Nights later, she tossed together a pasta salad. It was far too hot to turn on the oven to cook anything—a sweltering ninety-degree sunny day, the lawn at Wild Pines still empty as everyone quarantined.

Archer lay on the floor, a half bottle of cold beer next to him, staring up at the ceiling fan that was incessantly clicking. It’d started making that noise two days earlier, and it was driving him mad.

“You could turn it off,” Tea suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to hear it.”

“But then it would be hot as hell in here.”

She sighed and walked up to him, holding the bowl in one hand and her beer in the other. “I know. But you’re acting like a crazy person staring at that thing.”

“I wish I knew what the fuck was making that noise.”

“I know.” She turned toward the table. “Are we eating on the floor, or—?”

“Yes.”

She waited a beat, then realized he was being serious.