Owen nodded as if receiving confirmation from an expert witness. “Noah said something flattering.”
I looked between them. “What exactly do you think you know?”
“That he called you dreamy,” Owen said.
“Who told you that?”
Caleb took a sip. “You did.”
“I said no such thing.”
“Your face has become extremely talkative.”
I turned back to the wiring while they laughed behind me.
At lunch, we gathered around the scarred break-room table with cartons of soup and the stale crackers Owen insisted on hoarding.
Caleb talked about driving his daughter to tour colleges. Owen described helping his brother reroof a garage and discovering the rotten plywood by putting one leg through it.
For twenty minutes, no one mentioned rehabilitation schedules, legal claims, medical bills, or whether the yard could survive another quarter without a major contract.
They talked about children, bad roofing decisions, parking tickets, and a restaurant that had given Caleb food poisoning in 2009.
Ordinary lives.
I had forgotten how much I missed hearing about them.
Eventually, Owen took out his phone and showed us a photograph of a dark-haired woman standing beside a food truck, smiling into bright sunlight.
“She runs that place near the ferry terminal,” he said.
“The noodle truck?” Caleb asked.
“Yes.”
“You hate noodles.”
Owen slid the phone closer to himself. “I have reconsidered.”
“Because of the noodles?”
“Her name is Talia.”
I smiled. “How many dates?”
“Four.”
Caleb pointed his spoon at him. “For you, that’s practically a mortgage.”
“It’s dinner.”
“You drove to Portland last weekend.”
“She was working a festival.”
“And, by staggering coincidence, so were you?”
Owen looked at me. “You are the owner. Make him stop.”
