Page 73 of Just One More Thing

“I’m not surprised. Do I want to know how?”

“Mrs. Kravitz had binoculars.”

“Again, not surprised.”

She laughs, small and breathy, and looks at me. “That doesn’t bother you?”

Two months ago, if someone had asked me whether I’d want Mo beside me with the whole town talking, I’d have said yes before they finished the question.

“No,” I say. “Doesn’t bother me.”

She watches my face. Then she gives a small shrug. “Okay.”

A gull glides low over the water. The boat bumps soft against the dock. Somewhere over on The Point, somebody laughs. The town keeps waking up around us like this is any other morning.

It’s not.

At least for me, it’s not.

She finishes her doughnut, wipes her hands on her shorts, then glances toward the boat. “Pots today?”

“Pots today.”

She leans in just a little, shoulder brushing mine. “You need a first mate?”

I turn and look at her. She’s already looking at me. Trying very hard not to smile and losing the fight.

I reach into the box and hold out the chocolate. She takes it. “Eat that first,” I say. “You’re slower when you’re hungry.”

“I am not.”

“You’re squeaking, and you are.”

“Not.”

Hank shifts higher into her lap with a grunt, clearly annoyed we’re disrupting his winks. She scratches behind his ear, then looks back at me. “Are you going to be weird about last night?”

There are a dozen ways I can answer that question.

No, Mo. I’m not going to be weird. I’m not going to ask what changed or what happens when your time here runs out.

I’m not going to tell you I haven’t been able to think straight since you kissed me or that when I saw you walking down this dock, the first thing I felt was relief. Then happiness. Because some part of me was still braced for you not showing up at all.

“No.”

She squints one eye against the sun. “Good. Me neither.”

The kiss mattered.

This matters more.

This is her sitting beside me. On purpose. Acting like last night happened and she’s still here.

Ten years.

I built a life I could stand on without her in it. Football. This town. The Knuckle. Crab pots. All the ordinary things you stack under yourself when you’re trying to make peace with the life you planned and didn’t get.

She tips her face back toward the light, eyes closing, breeze lifting a few loose strands of hair across her cheek.