Page 74 of Just One More Thing

“It’s nice out here,” she says quietly.

“Yeah.”

“I forgot.”

I glance over at her. “Forgot what?”

She opens her eyes again, turning her head just enough to meet mine. “How much I like it here in the morning.”

I don’t say anything. Because if I do, I might tell her I never forgot a damn thing about her here.

The way she used to sit cross-legged on this dock with a book in her lap for hours. The way she’d lean into me when she got tired and pretend it was accidental.

The way she’d count the seconds between the flash of lightning and the rumble of thunder to know how far away a storm was from us.

The way my whole life used to orient itself around where she was.

A strand of hair blows across her mouth. I reach over and brush it off her face. My knuckles skim her cheek.

She doesn’t pull away.

I don’t move my hand.

Then she looks at me.

And if Hank wasn’t asleep between us like a snoring barricade, I’m not sure I’d remember how to be a gentleman.

CHAPTER 21

JAKE

Draft one is too long.

Draft two sounds like I’m inviting her to a business dinner.

Draft three only has Mo written before I just sit there staring at the paper while Hank breathes like a lawn mower at my feet, wondering when exactly I got nervous enough to need four tries to ask a woman to dinner.

Draft four.

Tonight. The Knuckle. 7:00

I read it twice, like the words might rearrange themselves into something better if I give them time.

Hank stares at it. “Too simple?” I ask him. He paws at the note.

Bulldog approved.

“Alright,” I say, like that settles it.

I roll the paper, write Mo on the outside, tie it with twine, and crouch down beside him. “Okay, buddy. Your turn.”

He spins in a tight circle with excitement, already committed to the job. I straighten the little blue bow tie at his neck and fasten the note to it. “Don’t eat it,” I add. He looks offended.

We head across The Point together, Hank trotting beside me with his chest out like he personally invented invitations. A couple people lift their cups from the Tall Tales patio, and someone in line at The Salty Dog calls Hank’s name before mine. Hank soaks it up like he’s on a parade route.

Willard tips his hat from his bench. I nod back.

Hank doesn’t break stride. He keeps marching like he’s on official business.