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“We don't have a tennis Dean.”

“Yet.”

I laughed, although the sound faded when I looked back toward the water.

Kim tilted her head. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

The almost-kiss rose instantly in my mind. Dean upstairs over Side A, the apartment warm from the day, his hair falling over his forehead, the smell of coffee between us while we'd stood close enough that I had noticed the small pale scar near his chin.

I swallowed.

“Not exactly.”

Kim's brows rose.

“We haven't done anything.”

“That's never a reassuring sentence.”

“Kim.”

“Fine.” She leaned back, folding her arms. “Tell me.”

I picked at the edge of the paper liner inside the basket.

“I keep wondering what my life would be like with him.”

“Since when?”

Twenty-seven years ago.

“Since spring, I suppose.”

She studied me, and I knew she could tell there was something I wasn't saying, but thankfully she didn't push.

“I like who I am at Side A,” I continued. “I like the music and the customers, and Brian putting everything in the wrong place because he thinks alphabetizing is silly. I like working, having somewhere I'm supposed to be because I decided to be there.”

“And Dean?”

“Yes.”

A flock of geese came low over the water, their calls carrying across the Terrace before they settled near the far shoreline.

Kim waited.

“He makes me feel like...” I stopped, searching for something that didn't sound like a greeting card.

Alive was too easy. Free sounded like something printed on a bumper sticker beside a rainbow.

“I don't know,” I admitted. “I feel like he sees a part of me everyone else misses.”

Kim's expression softened.

“Does Paul see you?”

The question irritated me instantly, probably because I didn't have a quick answer.