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"That was a bell being rung."

"By the town crier."

"Is she always like that?"

"Only on days that end in y."

I look at the slip of paper in my hand. No. 41. My thumb is shaking against the corner. His hand is still wrapped around my right, and I haven't let go of him either.

"You haven't flinched."

"Haven't had a reason."

"There's a tuba out there."

"I noticed it," he says. "I decided it was on our side."

I'm laughing, really laughing, with my head back, when I hear a voice behind me that I would know in a collapsed building.

"Holl."

Only one person has ever called me that. It's pronounced like a man pronouncing a nickname when he's decided what you'll be called.

I turn, and there he is. Six feet of polished gold on the grass. Grant Pemberton has the kind of face designed for the front page of a donor brochure. Strong jaw, sun-streaked hair, a smile with lots of teeth in it. He's wearing a navy quarter-zip, in October, to a parade. Carmen did not exaggerate.

Next to him, a slim woman in a camel coat clutches a tote bag embroidered with a G and an L joined by a little gold ampersand. She's smiling at me with an anxious, hopeful brightness that makes me feel suddenly, absurdly protective of her.

"Grant," I say. My voice comes out perfectly normal. I want it noted that I did it without a rehearsal. "And you must be Lacey. Congratulations. I'm very happy for you both."

It isn't the speech. It isn't any of the six drafts. It comes out plain, and a little shaky, and true enough that Lacey's face softens.

"Thank you," she says. "Oh, I love your coat. I mean, your cardigan. That color. I could never—" She tugs at her camel sleeve. "Grant says I can't wear yellow."

"Lace," Grant says, fondly, as though she were a cat on a table.

He turns that brochure smile on me. "Look at you, Holl. In color. You look great. Honestly, it's such a brave choice, and I think it's wonderful, I think it suits this confidence thing you've got going now. I always said you should lean into it."

It.

The word lands exactly where it was aimed. A small, sweet, perfectly engineered blow just below the ribs. Five years of the black is more flattering and maybe skip dessert rise in my throat like old water. My hand tightens on Ben's. My face is doing a smile I can't feel.

"And who's this?" Grant says, as if he's only now noticed the six-foot-three man holding my hand.

"Ben Mercer."

Ben offers his right hand. Grant takes it and tries, I can see him try, to squeeze. Ben's expression doesn't change. Grant lets go a half second early, with a little roll of the wrist. He glances at the scar running out of Ben's cuff.

"Marine?"

"Yes."

"Thank you for your service." The voice for retirees and the head of the Rotary. "And you two met—?"

"Last night," I say.

"Last night!" Grant laughs, genuinely delighted. "Well, that's so spontaneous. Good for you, Holl. Really. I know it's been hard for you to put yourself back out there, at your..." He pauses. "At your stage. I'm just happy to see you getting some attention."

There is a sound in my ears like a pot about to boil. I open my mouth. I have a hundred sharp answers and I can't find the first word of one.