“Do what?”
“Make everything quiet.”
I brushed my thumb over his cheek.
“You’re the one who kissed me.”
“Technicality.”
“Do you still want the retired-person outing?”
“Yes.”
“You need rest first.”
He sighed.
“I hate that you know.”
“I know.”
We left an hour later.
I packed the thermos, bread, pears, two blankets, medication, water, and enough emergency supplies to survive a modest shipwreck. Noah accused me of overpacking until I reminded him he had once brought three flashlights on a daytime picnic.
The drive to Bellweather Point followed the old coast road.
Noah watched the passing neighborhoods with open curiosity. Some he recognized. Others were built during the missing years and seemed to offend him by existing.
“That used to be a tire shop.”
“It closed four years ago.”
“And now it sells expensive soap.”
“Yes.”
“This town has declined.”
“You bought soap there last Christmas.”
“No.”
“Six bars.”
“For whom?”
“Leah.”
“That seems plausible.”
Traffic thinned beyond Greyhaven.
The road climbed through spruce and wind-bent pine. Sunlight flashed between trunks. At one turn, an oncoming logging truck filled the opposite lane.
Noah went rigid.
I slowed without braking hard.
