His dark hair is longer than it used to be, pushed back from his face in a way that makes the angles of his features more prominent.
I'm staring. I shouldn't be cataloging him like this.
I'm engaged. Aren't I?
“Mind if I sit?" he asks.
I nod, not trusting my voice.
We settle side by side on the dock, legs dangling over the edge, watching the water ripple under the fading light.
Our knees are inches apart. Not touching, but near enough that the heat radiates between us. Near enough that if I shifted even slightly we'd make contact.
I don't shift. Neither does he.
The silence between us isn't uncomfortable exactly—it's just heavy.
The air changes when he turns his head slightly toward me, when his eyes track to my hands folded in my lap, when his gaze lingers just a fraction too long before returning to the water.
The tension coils between us.
I pick at a splinter on the dock just to give my hands something to do.
"That was really nice, what you said today. At the eulogy."
He's quiet for a moment, and he's watching me even though I'm staring determinedly at the lake.
"It was hard to find the right words for a man like Alfie.”
“Well, you found them," I say softly.
"Alfie would've hated all the attention," he says, and I hear the smile in his voice even without looking. "He'd have preferred we all just showed up at the bookshop with whiskey and stories."
"He would have." The thought makes my chest ache.
"He used to ask about you, actually. Every time I'd see him."
I turn to look at him, throat suddenly tight. "He did?"
"Yeah." Nate's eyes meet mine, and there's something careful in his expression. "He'd ask if I'd heard from you. How your writing was going. Whether you were happy." He pauses. "I never had good answers for him."
Something breaks in my chest—small and sharp.
The idea of Alfie asking about me, of him thinking about me even when I'd let years pass without visiting, without calling, without maintaining the connection we'd once had.
"He cared about you."
I have to look away, back at the water, before the emotion building in my throat becomes visible.
"I heard The Row's new song on the radio the other day,” I say, needing to shift the conversation before I fall apart completely.
His head turns slightly toward me. "Yeah?"
"Yeah." My fingers worry at the wood. "It's good. Really good."
“Glad you like it.” He pauses, and he's watching me eventhough I'm staring determinedly at the lake. "I heard your book's being adapted."
"It is."
