“It’s as though we were always giving each other directions back.”
“We liked knowing where to find one another.”
“Why?”
“Because we wanted to come home to each other.”
The room became very still.
Noah opened the photo gallery.
I watched his thumb move through five years.
Marlowe with a darker muzzle.
The harbor under winter rain, summer sun, autumn fog.
Boats lifted in the slings.
Tools arranged across workbenches.
Caleb asleep on a coil of rope after an overnight repair.
Owen grinning beside a restored mast.
Leah with the girls.
Then me.
Again.
And again.
There were more photographs of me than I remembered him taking.
Me cooking at the stove.
Me reading on the sofa with Marlowe’s head across my thigh.
Me asleep in the passenger seat.
Me frowning at an invoice.
Me standing shirtless on the deck of a boat with sunlight across my shoulders and the first pink of sunburn along my back.
Noah stopped.
I cleared my throat. “You took that without permission.”
“You’re looking directly at the camera.”
“I was objecting.”
“You appear relaxed.”
“I was worn down.”
His cheeks deepened in color.
