The bedroom. That’s another problem.
My bedroom is clean, but not prepared for company. The quilt is folded wrong because I stripped the sheets yesterday and didn’t bother making the bed properly after I put on fresh ones. There’s a paperback on the nightstand, a glass of water from last night, and one of my socks on the floor near the dresser.
Perfect.
A woman like Layla will notice the sock.
I go pick it up, then stand in the doorway, staring at the bed.
This is a bad idea.
No, it’s not.
Yes, it is.
I want her in that bed, but I don’t only want her there. That’s the thing making the floor feel less solid than it should.
I want her at the kitchen table in the morning, wearing my sweatshirt again, hair tangled, feet tucked beneath her until I remind her not to hide. I want her on the porch with coffee, asking questions I don’t know how to answer. I want to show her the old trail behind the cabin that leads to a higher overlook, the one most people don’t know about because it isn’t on the maps.
I want to see whether she likes the Gulf in winter. Whether palm trees at sunset make her quiet. Whether she can work from a passenger seat with her laptop while I drive toward the next season.
The thought comes so clear I almost stop breathing. She could. Not now. Not all at once. But she could.
Layla could teach without staying in one classroom. She could tutor. Build online lessons. Work with homeschool families, traveling families, kids who need reading help from someone who knows how to make them feel smart before they believe it themselves.
I heard it in her voice when she talked about teaching. She does not only love the classroom. She loves the giving. The seeing. The helping a child step into a thing they thought they couldn’t do.
A woman who can teach a scared child to read can learn a new kind of life if she wants it.
If.
That word matters. If she wants it.
Not because I want her in my truck. Not because the idea of her sleeping beside me under every roof I borrow or rent or return to makes something wild and hopeful claw at my ribs. Because she wants it.
I lean one shoulder against the bedroom doorframe and close my eyes. How the hell would I ask her to stay?
Not stay in Cady Springs. That would be the wrong question. Everyone asks people to stay in the place that makes sense to them.
I’d have to ask her to go. Come with me when summer ends.
That sounds insane. We’ve known each other days, and I’m already thinking about the end of summer like it’s a cliff I can’t see the bottom of.
Maybe that’s why this feels familiar. Maybe it isn’t the height that scares a person. Maybe it’s not knowing whether the water below is deep enough to hold what’s falling.
A sound cuts through the quiet. I go still. At first, I think it’s thunder, but the sky outside is clear now. The storm moved east. This is lower. Mechanical. An engine.
I move to the front window before I decide to. Headlights sweep through the trees at the bend in the drive, bright through the pine trunks, then disappear for a second behind the slope. Gravel crunches under tires. My hands curl against the window frame.
A guest who took a wrong turn. A neighbor needing help with something because apparently I’ve made a life out of being the man people come to when things break.
The headlights appear again, closer this time. I can’t see the driver through the glare. Only the shape of the vehicle easing down the gravel lane toward the porch light. But I know before the car stops.
I know it’s her. Everything in me knows. Layla came.
The car rolls to a stop in front of the cabin. For one second, I don’t move. The porch light spills over the hood, over the gravel, over the first pale glimpse of her hand on the steering wheel.
My chest feels too full. Too tight. Like the moment before a jump when fear and want become the same thing. I step awayfrom the window, cross the room, and open the door. And there she is.
