Then, softer, “Send me a photo of Heath later?”
My chest pulls.
“Yeah.”
“And maybe the sea.”
“Yeah.”
“And…” He stops.
I wait.
The line hums faintly.
“And what?” I ask.
“Nothing.”
Coward, I think again.
This time softer.
This time at both of us.
“I’ll send the sea,” I say.
“Good.”
“Philip.”
“Yeah?”
I look down at Heath, at the phone, at the morning light.
“Glad you answered.”
Silence.
Then, barely above a murmur, “Me too.”
The call ends a second later.
I stand in the kitchen long after the screen goes dark.
Heath climbs from my chest back into my hand and starts sniffing for another seed, apparently unmoved by the fact that he has just nearly detonated my entire life.
“Tiny menace,” I mutter.
He takes the seed and turns away.
I make tea because coffee feels wrong for some reason.
Too loud, maybe.
Too normal.
Then I stand by the glass doors while the kettle cools behind me and watch the morning come in properly.
