Page 51 of At First Spark
“That’s not the goal.”
The words leave me before I think too hard about them. Something shifts in her face. Small. Quick. There and gone before I can name it.
Then she lifts her chin, slides into the truck, and says, “You’re difficult.”
I shut the door and head around to the driver’s side.
“Yeah,” I say as I climb in. “You keep saying that like it’s new information.”
The engine turns over. Gravel crunches under the tires as I back us out of the drive, and for the first couple of minutes, neither of us says anything.
The town eases into view in pieces as we head back toward Main. Water flashing silver through the trees. Oldporches catching the last of the daylight. The marina off to the right with its rows of masts and low hum of evening activity winding down.
Coral Bell Cove looks different at this hour than it does first thing in the morning. Softer, maybe. Less expectant. Like everyone has already spent the day becoming whoever they’re supposed to be and is now trying to ease back into themselves. That thought stays with me longer than it should.
I glance at Lark. She’s watching the road ahead, not me, her elbow resting near the window, fingers curved lightly against the edge of the door. She changed after we got back from the inn this morning and never changed back—my shirt still on her, sleeves pushed to her forearms now, the faded blue making the soot on her skin stand out more clearly than it should.
I know I should stop noticing that, but I’ve never been good at listening to myself.
“We are not going somewhere fancy,” she says suddenly.
I drag my attention back to the road. “Good.”
“Because I’m dirty.”
“You’re cleaner than you were when I first hauled you away from a fire.”
She turns her head slowly. “You say that like I should be grateful.”
“I say that like you had a hose in your hand and no sense left.”
Her mouth tightens, though I catch the fight softening at the edges before it fully lands.
“That was one time.”
“That was one terrible decision.”
“That was me trying to keep my property from burning down.”
“That was you standing too close to the flames with a garden hose and determination.”
She looks back out the window.
“You make me sound unhinged.”
I take the turn onto Main and let the truck slow in front of the diner.
“You weren’t unhinged,” I say. “You were stubborn.”
That gets her attention again.
“There’s a difference.”
The neon sign in the front window flickers faintly against the deepening blue outside. Inside, the place is warm with overhead lights, red vinyl booths, and the kind of steady traffic that belongs to a town where everyone knows exactly which table they prefer and which server will let them substitute fries for onion rings without a fight.
Lark looks from the diner to me and then back again.
“This is not a date.”
