He took one look at Moose and another look at me, in my socks, halfway across his lawn.
"He came back."
"I'm so sorry. I opened the door for the mail. He went straight through me."
He bent down and put a hand on top of Moose's head. Moose leaned into him.
"He came to see his friend."
On the other side of the screen door, Penny had her muzzle pressed against the mesh. Her tail was making a slow, wide arc that, in a dog her age, was equivalent to running.
"I'll get him and go. I promise."
Easton looked down at Moose, who hadn't moved from his hand. He looked back at me.
"Coffee?" he asked.
"I don't want to keep you."
"You aren't."
He held the screen door open a little wider. Somewhere behind him, in the dim of the entryway, Penny made a small sound of recognition. Of welcome.
I didn't want to leave. I wasn't going to admit it.
"Okay," I said.
I stepped past him into the house.
The living room was small and tidy in a way that meant someone had lived in it for forty years and never thrown anything out without reason. A folded blanket on one arm of the couch. The guitar case against the wall. Across from the couch, an old leather chair with a brass lamp and a pair of reading glasses was still tucked into the slot of a hardbound book on the side table.
His grandmother's chair. He hadn't moved it.
He gestured me to the couch, poured coffee in the kitchen, came back with two mugs and a small carton of cream on a tray. He set it down on the low table between us and lowered himself into the leather chair. He sat at the very front edge of the seat. He didn't lean back.
Penny lay down at his feet. Moose flopped down beside her like he had been coming here his whole life.
"Thank you," I said. "Again. For the shirt. For not laughing too hard."
"You're welcome. Again."
"I'd like to put it on the record that I'm not, generally, that woman."
A small, almost-smile. "Noted."
A moment of silence passed. It wasn't uncomfortable. I cleared my throat.
"Easton, I heard about your grandmother. I'm so sorry for your loss."
He looked at the table for a beat. His thumb passed once along the rim of his mug. Stopped.
"Thank you."
I picked up my mug. The coffee was good. Hot enough to burn my upper lip, and exactly enough cream that I could taste he'd been paying attention to how I took it in the kitchen earlier, without my noticing.
"How are you holding up?" I asked.
He took a breath. Held it. Let it out.
