“But maybe I don’t have to stare at the door all day.”
The image tightened my chest.
“No.”
“If memories come, they come.”
“Yes.”
“If they don’t…”
His fingers closed around mine.
“We make new ones.”
The phrase could have sounded shallow.
It did not, because he was choosing it.
“Like this?” he asked.
“Cold grass. Dog breath. Your chair making a strange noise.”
“It does not.”
“It squeaks.”
“Maintenance issue.”
“Electrician.”
“Not mechanic.”
“You repaired the wheel last week.”
“I was proving versatility.”
I kissed his knuckles.
“What number is this?”
“What?”
“Date.”
He considered.
“Seven?”
“We lost count.”
“No starting over.”
“Agreed.”
“No first-date rules.”
“Good. I hated pretending not to want to take you home.”
