“We know,” Ethan said.
When the kitchen was clean, they moved to the living room. Ethan grabbed a throw pillow off the couch and dropped to the floor without being asked, leaving the couch for Becca to stretch out. Wyatt settled in beside her, her feet in his lap before he’d even found the remote. Ethan leaned against the recliner and started arguing about the Brewers’ starting lineup.
Dawson leaned against the doorframe and watched them for a minute. Wyatt’s hand resting on Becca’s ankle. Ethan tossing the throw pillow at the TV when the pitcher walked someone.
“You staying?” Wyatt asked without looking away from the game.
“Nah. Early morning.”
“Drive safe.”
Ethan tilted his head back. “I’ll be home after the game.”
Becca blew him a kiss.
In his truck, Dawson sat with the engine running and both hands on the wheel. The house glowed behind him, warm and yellow through the windows. Becca laughed at something inside, loud enough to carry through the glass.
He put the truck in gear and pulled out of the driveway.
Dawson parkedon Main Street a few nights later and walked the half-block to The Penalty Box with his book tucked under his arm. The evening was still warm, August holding onto the last bit of summer. The only notable difference was the lack of kids still out riding their bikes around now that school was about to start.
He nodded at Mrs. Olsen as she came out of the hardware store, and she asked about Wyatt’s baby. He said Becca was doing well, and that was the whole conversation. As much as Dawson sometimes hated how nosy everyone in this town could be, he also couldn’t imagine living somewhere neighbors didn’t talk to one another.
He’d walked this stretch of Main Street ten thousand times. Knew which sidewalk squares were cracked, which door stuck at the hardware store if you didn’t lift the handle. Port Haven might not be much to look at, but it was home, every square inch of it, and that counted for something, even on the days it felt like a cage.
The Penalty Box at seven on a weeknight was exactly what it should be. Half-full, warm, Brewers murmuring from the TV above the bar. Dawson’s stool—third from the end, near the corner where the bar met the wall.
He settled in with his book and a beer. He was halfway through the latest Bosch novel, deep enough in that the pieces were starting to click. Dawson went through crime thrillers fast, two or three a week when he was on a streak. The used bookshelf at Second Period kept him supplied, and the stack on his nightstand never got any smaller.
Within two pages, he’d started picking at the label on his bottle with his thumbnail. Slow strips, peeled without looking down.
A few nights ago, he’d walked in, and his routine had snagged on something unfamiliar. Leo, sitting at the bar with Gunnar, wearing clothes that cost more than anything in the building and nursing a drink like it had personally disappointed him. They’d exchanged a few words. Dawson had given him nothing.
He’d been trying not to think about it since. Didn’t want to look too closely at why this one particular hockey player was stuck in his mind when he couldn’t name any other players on the team except the ones who were also locals.
Behind the bar, Gunnar restocked the cooler while Wes worked the other end, talking to regulars, his laugh cutting through the noise. When Wes reached past Gunnar for a bottle on the back shelf, his hand landed on Gunnar’s back. Low, brief. Gunnar shifted a half-step to give him room without breaking rhythm. They’d only been together a few months, but watching them now, Dawson wondered how long they’d been moving around each other like that before either of them did anything about it. Years, probably. All that time behind the same bar, both oblivious to what the other was feeling.
And nobody in the bar had blinked when they’d finally gotten together. Most of Port Haven had accepted them without making a big deal out of it. The regulars shrugged and moved on. The team showed up every week and never treated the bar any differently.
He watched Wes’s fingers trail the bar top as he passed. Watched Gunnar’s eyes follow him across the room without his head turning. A raised eyebrow from Wes meant they were running low. A chin lift from Gunnar meant he’d handle it. No words needed.
Gunnar set a fresh beer in front of him without being asked. Dawson nodded. Gunnar leaned against the back counter, drying a glass.
“Busy week?” Gunnar asked.
“Same as always.”
Gunnar’s mouth moved. Not quite a smile. “Stick around tonight. Got a new pale ale from a brewery up in Door County. Need someone who’ll give me an honest opinion.”
“Last guy you asked said everything tasted great, and you kicked him out of the bar.”
“Because he was lying to my face. You won’t.”
Gunnar moved off to fill an order, and the bar settled around Dawson. He opened his book to the dog-eared page.
No matter how hard he tried focusing on the story, his mind kept drifting to Leo. He never paid much attention to most of the players that walked through the door, but there was something about this one that stuck in his head and wouldn’t let go.
The label on his bottle was half gone. He peeled another strip and rolled it between his thumb and forefinger. Took a drink. Set it down. Stared at the page.
