He turned toward the mirror.
The jeans fit differently after months of lost muscle, but they fit. He wore a cream shirt beneath a dark overshirt and left the top buttons open.
“You look like yourself,” I said.
“Which one?”
“This one.”
He met my gaze in the mirror.
“Good answer.”
I wore black jeans and a blue button-down Noah had chosen from the closet.
He looked me over.
“Those are tight.”
“They fit.”
“Barely.”
“You bought them.”
“The man before had vision.”
I laughed.
He came close and ran one hand over my hip.
“Still good.”
“Dangerous before leaving.”
“Consider it motivation to return.”
At the door, I picked up the walking pole.
Noah looked at it.
Then held out his hand.
No argument.
That worried me until I saw his expression.
He had decided the pole was the price of going somewhere. Not a symbol of failure.
We drove to the Harborside.
The tavern occupied an old cannery building near the public marina. The front room was narrow and dim, but a glassed-in side hall overlooked the docks, and the music there was quieter.
Caleb had reserved a table there.
Even so, the parking lot was uneven.
Noah used the pole and took my arm over the gravel.
