Page 54 of Soft Serve

I think it was worth it.

By late afternoon, the crowd has thinned to the comfortable hum of a day winding down well, and Rosie, Millie, Miguel, and Dana have the close well in hand. Charles appears beside me and says quietly, "Walk with me."

I go.

We take the long way, the road that curves out of town toward the lake, the evening air sitting warm and gentle around us, the noise of the day fading behind us with each step.

The dock is empty.

It always seems to be empty when we need it to be, which I've stopped questioning and started accepting as one of the small graces of a life lived in a place that knows you.

We walk to the end of it and stand at the railing, the water dark and still below us, the last of the light sitting on the surface in long golden strips.

I lean against the railing and look at him.

He looks back.

"The backup freezer," I say.

"Yes," he says.

"And the suppliers."

"Yes."

"And the station outside. And Miguel and Dana."

"Yes," he says, and his voice is even, not defensive, not performing modesty, just honest.

"You did all of that without saying anything," I say.

"You would have argued," he says.

"I would have," I agree.

"And you would have been wrong," he says. "Not about wanting to handle it yourself. But about not letting anyone help." He holds my gaze. "You're allowed to have someone in your corner, Paloma. It doesn't make it less yours."

I look at him for a long moment. I see the silver at his temples that I've stopped noticing as a detail and started knowing as simply part of his face. At the forearms that have been distracting me since the first morning. The man who came into my shop a year ago, like something expensive, and stayed like something necessary.

"The workshop on Crane Street," I say.

Something moves through his expression, warm and slightly caught off guard.

"Theo," he says.

"Theo," I confirm.

He exhales. "It still needs a lot of work."

"Are you doing it yourself?" I ask.

"Mostly," he says. "Evenings and weekends." He pauses. "I've been building a workbench. It's taking longer than it should because I keep getting the dimensions wrong and starting over."

"Why do you keep starting over?" I ask.

"Because I want it right," he says simply.

I reach out and take his hand.