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“I see you got rid of that ancient topper you used to have for the tree.”

Anita looked at the tree, then back at me. “I did no such thing. That topper came from the old owners. It’s on my tree upstairs. Has been for the last few years. Ever since Turner insisted on that look.” She dismissively waved a hand at the tree.

“Says it will help us sell the hats.” She pointed to a bin near the tree that I knew held various holiday hats and headbands. “He was pretty insistent on it.” She tugged at my hair. “Looks like you could use one. Look at all this hair!” She took a scrunchie off her wrist and handed it to me.

I pulled my hair up as I laughed, feeling at least a little lighter in Anita’s presence. I let her know, “Well, I like the tree. And I’m glad you’ve still got the old topper. Every year I was afraid that I was going to break it. It’s probably safer upstairs.” A male voice came from the back room, definitely not Turner’s.

“Turner should have used that excuse,” Anita said as she walked away from me. “What was that, Wyatt? You know I can’t hear for shit anymore.” She looked back at me. “Don’t get old.”

I laughed again, looking around to make sure no one was offended by Anita’s language. A mom I recognized from when I had worked there just smiled at me and shook her head.

From the back of the store, Anita yelled, “Turner’s next door, Dalt. Come this way.”

The first thing I noticed was the new door on the far wall of the office, the one Turner had stood in every time I’d asked him for an update.

However, I could barely absorb the change when I noticed there was a man sitting at Anita’s desk as she hovered over his shoulder, looking at something on the laptop. She glanced up at me and smiled.

“Have you ever seen the Grand Canyon?”

“Yeah, we went there one Thanksgiving. Dad spent the entire week critiquing the local At Home hotel, so that was fun.”

“We’re buying an RV and going on a road trip!” For a second, I pictured Anita and Turner closing the store and heading west for … how long would it take to drive that far? But no, Anita had put her hand on the man’s shoulder when she said it.

“Dalton, meet Wyatt. Wy, this is Dalton. Chris and Leila’s son.” Wyatt got a look on his face that let me know he knew who my dad was.

So, there was a guy in Anita’s life. But still, why was Anita hanging all over him? Why was he sitting at her desk? And why did he know about my dad and the building? And most importantly, what did Turner think about it all?

“Son.” Wyatt looked up and acknowledged me before going back to his research on the computer.

“The Grand Canyon. Sounds like fun!” I tried to keep the surprise and confusion out of my voice. “Anyway, I told Turner I could work for the next few weeks, and I’m really excited to see the new space. Is he …”

“Through there, sweetie,” Anita said, still leaning over Wyatt and maneuvering the mouse as she tipped her head toward the new door.

“Thanks, Anita,” I said before mumbling, “Nice to meet you Wyatt,” my hand on the door.

“Son,” he said again as I entered the neighboring space. It had been a women’s clothing store, so I’d rarely been in there unless Anita asked me to stop in for some reason, and one time, early on in my career as a toy store clerk, when I had used my earnings to buy my mom a scarf for Mother’s Day.

The main floor had been completely gutted and was mostly empty except for two partially built counters along the side and back wall. The windows were covered with brown paper, the floor covered in tarps, and some harsh light bulbs hung from the ceiling. A ladder and cans of paint were clustered in the middle of the room. Turner sat, his legs crossed, in a white T-shirt and jeans, with a paintbrush in hand, painting the trim. He was wearing headphones and hadn’t heard me enter.

As I stared at his careful application of paint to the wood in front of him, I realized how truly excited I’d been to see him at the restaurant. We’d left things … well, I didn’t even really know how to describe how we’d left things when we’d kissed three years ago. But I’d seen him the following Christmas, and I thought, or maybe hoped, we’d gotten past my impulsive act. We never brought it up in our texting, sticking to safer topics like the store or my studies. Turner had been really supportive when I told him I’d be traveling again the following summer, and he checked in often with news about how life was going in Breakwater. Everyone else asked about my trip and my studies and what Alaska was like, and Turner did some of that too. But he was the only one who understood that I might be missing home as well. I really valued the stories he told me about Anita, Martin, Preston, and even my own family. He had not mentioned Wyatt or a trip to the Grand Canyon even once.

I scooped up one of the paint brushes as I walked past and dropped down next to Turner, almost but not quite touching his shoulder. He jumped, getting paint on the blue tape above the trim.

“Shit,” he exclaimed as he pulled his headphones off and shoved them in his pocket.

“All good,” I assured him. “You hit the tape.”

I dipped my paint brush in the can and ran a stripe down a section of the trim.

“Dalton.” It was all he said, and I didn’t know how to read his tone. In some ways, it felt like we had been having one long conversation since I’d gotten home from Alaska; in others, we were two people who hadn’t seen each other in a really long time.

All I wanted to do was talk to him, and yet neither of us said anything. We worked peaceably, sitting side by side until neither of us could reach an unpainted section without relocating. I didn’t move, and neither did he, so I turned in toward him, my knee resting on his thigh.

“Who the fuck is Wyatt, and why in the hell is he calling me son?”

“Ahh, you met the boyfriend, then.”

“The boyfriend!” I shouted, but remembering that they were basically in an adjacent room, I looked behind me toward the back room that housed a door that hadn’t been there before.