“That is practically a declaration.”
“It was the beginning.”
His laughter faded.
He studied my face.
“You like telling me these things.”
“Yes.”
“Does it hurt?”
“Yes.”
I did not hide the answer.
Noah’s fingers tightened around mine.
“I’m glad you tell me anyway.”
“So am I.”
He asked about the yard.
About how I bought it.
About the first boat we repaired together.
About Caleb and Owen.
About why I preferred old station wagons to trucks, why I hated dried fruit in cereal, why I kept a paper calendar despite owning a phone.
Some answers amused him.
Some produced a distant frown as he searched for recognition that did not come.
When that happened, I waited until he returned.
Eventually, his questions became simpler.
“Favorite season?”
“Late autumn.”
“Food?”
“Anything cooked outside.”
“Music?”
“Folk. Blues. Music where the singer sounds as though life has happened to them.”
“Color?”
“Green.”
He looked toward the navigation lamp.
