“You have no idea what this does to a person’s soul at the end of a twelve-hour shift. None. You are seriously my hero this morning.”
He’d come down a step and propped himself against the railing post — not crowding me, but near enough. “Bad night?”
“Define bad.” I drank. It was perfect. “Nobody died who wasn’t extremely committed to the idea. I had a gentleman come in certain he was having a heart attack, and when the labs came back clean and I told him his heart was in excellent condition, hewas — and I want to be precise — disappointed. Visibly. I think he’d cleared his schedule.”
The corner of his mouth went.
“And a six-year-old who’d opened his head up on a coffee table and was very brave about it right up until his mum walked in, at which point he produced a noise I’m fairly sure deterred local wildlife.” I drank again. “So. Medium. A medium night.”
“And now?”
“Now,” I said, with feeling, “I am going to enjoy this perfect drink. Then I’m go inside and get into my bed, which I love. I want to be clear about the depth of it. There is no relationship in my life as uncomplicated as the one I have with my bed after a night shift. We have never once fought.”
He huffed a laugh and pushed off the railing post.
"Then I'll let you get to it." He headed down my steps. "I'll keep the street quiet for you. You sleep."
"You can't control the street."
"I can have a word with it,” He said over his shoulder as he kept walking.
I watched him cross the road.
"Caleb."
He stopped and turned.
I lifted the coffee a little.
"Thank you."
His mouth curved.
Slow. Easy.
The morning sun caught his eyes and something in my stomach dropped clean through the porch boards.
Heat climbed straight into my face.
He tipped his chin once, still smiling, then turned and kept walking.
A moment later he disappeared into his house.
I stood on my porch with the coffee warming my hands and the blush refusing to leave my cheeks.
Willow was at Murph’s wheelie bin.
Murph’s bin was at the curb where Murph had wheeled it last night for the collection coming this morning, the way he’d done it three thousand times in the same direction at the same hour. Willow was wheeling it back up his drive for him. In a quilted dressing gown the color of a peach, belted firmly. Making excellent progress despite a lean against her hip that was not a good lean.
Murph’s bedroom window came up and they got into their usual argument about how Willow shouldn’t bother touching Murph’s stuff and how Murph always left his bin in the wrong place, forcing Willow to get involved.
A laugh escaped before I could stop it.
I covered my mouth with my free hand and leaned against the door.
Across the street, Murph's window slammed.
Willow rolled the bin beside the garage, squared it up, brushed her hands together, and walked back to her porch without looking left or right.
