“Works for me.”
She reached for the mug and ran her thumb over her name. Margot’s. Not guest. Not visitor.
Not temporary event contractor who could pack her car in twenty minutes if the floor dropped out from under her.
Hers.
“You got the apostrophe right,” she said.
“I checked.”
“Twice?”
“Three times.”
She laughed.
He studied her. “You okay?”
“Yes.” She put the mug back with care. “No. Maybe.”
“That covers the options.”
“I moved here.”
“I noticed the boxes.”
“I signed the lease. I changed my mailing address. I have a parking permit, Evan. A parking permit.” She turned toward him. “So why do I still feel like I’m waiting for someone to tell me there’s been a mistake?”
He leaned against the workbench, giving her room the way he always did.
The shed held its morning quiet around them. Water against pilings. A boat engine turning over somewhere down the row. The faint drip of coffee into the pot.
“I felt that way after the Coast Guard,” he said. “When I came back here. Everybody treated me like I belonged because I’d grown up close enough. Ray put me to work. Jolene left food at my door. The marina needed fixing. All of that should’ve made it simple.”
“But it didn’t.”
“No.” He looked at the shelf with the mugs. “Belonging took longer than arrival.”
She tucked the tablet against her chest. There it was.
She had arrived. She had not caught up with herself yet.
Outside, footsteps sounded on the dock.
“Morning,” Cass called through the door. “Please tell me one of you has the crowd-flow map, because Harker says the ghost tour route creates a blind spot near the south gate. I need to prove him wrong with documentation.”
Margot turned fast, grateful for the interruption and annoyed by it. “I have the binder.”
Cass opened the door and stepped in, hair clipped up, phone in her hand. A faint scar showed near her hairline, pale against her skin.
She saw the mugs. Then she glanced at Evan. Then Margot.
“Oh.” Cass smiled. “Did I interrupt something?”
“No,” Margot said.
“Yes,” Evan said at the same time.
