Daphne startled.
I looked at the screen.
Fletcher.
The shed cooled in the wrong places.
Daphne saw the name. Her face didn’t change much, but her fingers closed around the strap of her tote.
I silenced the call without answering.
“You can take that,” she said.
“I know.”
The phone stopped ringing.
Outside, Birdie laughed. Gus said, “Kid, step away from the bin.”
Daphne shifted her tote higher on her shoulder. “I should go.”
I wanted to tell her not to.
That would’ve been a bad idea for more reasons than I could count, and the first one still sat under her initials on the hours sheet.
I picked up her water bottle from the bench and handed it to her. “Take this. Stretch tonight.”
Her mouth curved. “You’re very invested in my hamstrings.”
“Your hamstrings keep making poor decisions.”
“My hamstrings are victims of unfamiliar labor.”
“They can tell me that after they stretch.”
Her smile softened again. “You always make stretching sound serious.”
“Your hamstrings started it.”
She took the bottle. This time, she let her fingers brush mine on purpose.
It lasted one second.
It lasted long enough.
“I’ll see you for the last four,” she said.
“I’ll be here.”
She walked out of the shed into the white noon light. I stayed where I was with my hand still half-open, like an idiot who hadn’t learned a thing from the pipe cap.
At the gate, Birdie lifted her basket. “Daphne, bring that kneeling pad back tomorrow if he lets you steal it.”
Daphne turned. “I’ll return it in excellent condition.”
“I’ve heard promises before,” Birdie said.
“Then I’ll keep mine vague.”
