“Did you see how they put those two little wooden levers? They gave the cake load-bearing beams, Robyn,” he insists. “Amazing.”
His tongue dips out and swirls around the cone, gathering vanilla on it before wrapping his lips around it and sucking.
He clears his throat. “Chocolate’s dripping down your thumb.”
I lick from my wrist to my thumb, releasing my digit with a pop under his watchful gaze. He smirks, cognac eyes bright beneath the shade of his lashes. His hair’s twisted into a loose bun, wisps escaping at his temples. His beard catches flecks oflight, auburn all over. I’d never known his facial hair was also reddish until last month in Seattle. He hadn’t let it grow that much when we were together.
“You said something similar about the brutalist library disguised as gingerbread,” I counter. “And about that cake aiming to pose as that architect you like.”
“Those were morally wrong cakes.”
I laugh and bump my shoulder with his. He leans into his cone and licks along the edge, slow and unapologetic, but I refuse to give into it. Laughing and walking with this version of Nate is easy. Pretending my body doesn’t catalog every detail of him—not so much.
Then I see her. Mrs. Matthews stands outside the bookstore, a canvas tote looped over her arm, hair pulled back neatly. Her hair’s that mature color between gray and golden, and her glasses hang from a silver chain around her neck. Just the way she had them at Mr. Matthews’s last scheduled appointment. The world tilts.
I stop short. My mouth opens on instinct, apology already forming, but she lifts a hand before I can say a word.
“Don’t,” she says, her eyes are clear. Steady. “Save it.”
I swallow. Nate stills beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him, but this is my burden to face and carry.
“Who do we have here, dear?” she asks, eyes sparkling with curiosity.
“This is my friend, Nate.”
Nate’s posture tightens as he shakes her hand. The designation isn’t a lie, but it’s not the whole truth. Fear and all, I don’t want it to be the whole truth, at least.
I shake my head and try to focus on apologizing, explaining I did everything I could, and she must see it on my face because she adds, “You caught the thing that could be caught. You gave us months we wouldn’t have had otherwise.” Her voice firms. “You’re a damn good doctor,Dr. Hollis.”
Something in my chest loosens, then aches. I nod because I don’t trust myself to speak. She squeezes my arm once, turns, and walks away as if she didn’t just turn my week inside out.
I felt this responsibility to improve protocols so we could serve patients better. And I still want to… but maybe it isn’t on me. Maybe half clinic, half research wouldn’t be such a bad idea.
I exhale slowly, and we start walking again, quieter now that the ice cream’s gone. The afternoon hums on.
At the corner, he glances at his phone. “I’m past my lunch break, I should head out. The construction site on Hamby Road’s a mess, and the foreman’s an idiot, so it’s on me to fix it.” He rubs his forearm. “You gonna be okay?” He stares attentively, but he doesn’t doubt my nod or smile. He used to prod, now he trusts. “See you soon?”
“No later than Wednesday. Reading club. In person,” I remind him.
“Yep.”
He turns and takes a step away from me, only to pivot right back.
“Actually,” he says from a few feet away, “my mom’s visiting this weekend.” He scratches the back of his head. “She knows we’re not together.” He snickers. “But she wants you there for brunch. You know she has a thing for Saturdays at eleven a.m.”
I still while smoothing the strap of my bag, flicking my eyes up to meet Nate’s. There’s a teasing glint in them. IloveRebecca.
“No funny business, right?”
Nate chuckles, shaking his head as he looks down. “With Mom? I’d say you can count on it?”
I huff out a laugh. “I’ll be there,” I say excitedly despite my better judgment.
A smile spreads across his face, teeth showing and beardhighlighting the fullness of his bottom lip. He steps closer and dips down, pressing a kiss to my cheek. His lips are warm against my skin. The thick beard tickles, and my skin lights up anyway, a flush blooming I can’t control. I love it.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, pulling back.
“It’s okay.” It is, but it is also too much too fast. Maybe we’re more turtles than people at this point.
