Page 13

I think about Hewit catching my coffee before it fell. Not exactly compelling evidence for sainthood, but it didn’t feel calculated either.

“You’re not what you pretend to be,” I murmur.

I eat some of Marjorie’s casserole standing at the counter, then spend another hour unpacking. Around two, I hear an engine outside.

I go to the window before I can stop myself.

Hewit is pulling into the driveway. He’s driving an old dark pickup with mud along the wheel wells and a toolbox mounted behind the cab. He gets out carrying a rolled map beneath one arm and a paper bag in the other hand.

Even from here, he’s impossible to miss.

He’s huge.

I noticed that in town, obviously, but distance makes the proportions clearer. Broad shoulders. Long legs. Frankly, an excessive amount of man.

His white hair catches the afternoon light as he walks toward his porch.

Then he stops.

His head turns, directly toward my kitchen window. I duck beneath the window like a criminal while holding a fork covered in casserole.

“Oh, excellent, Nora.”

This is a strong beginning to my new life.

After five seconds, I straighten slowly. Hewit is gone. I stare at his closed front door. I could leave it there. I should leave it there. He specifically told me not to come over, and I respect boundaries.

Usually.

But there’s a difference between ignoring someone’s boundaries and refusing to let somebody preemptively reject basic neighborly civility.

I look at the coffee maker I unpacked twenty minutes ago, then at the bag from Conjure and Crumb sitting on the counter. Melinda insisted I try the Sin Buns. She also insisted I buy two. At the time, I thought this was upselling, but now I’m less certain.

I shake my head. “No, Nora.”

I pick up another box. I unpack towels, arrange toiletries, then move towels because I don’t like where I put them.

Eventually, I find myself back in the kitchen staring at the second pastry. This is ridiculous. It’s a pastry. People bring food to neighbors. That’s a thing. He can refuse it. I’m fully prepared for him to refuse it. Mostly.

I make fresh coffee. Two cups. His has no sugar because I can’t imagine Hewit voluntarily adding sweetness to anything. Black feels right. Possibly with gravel.

I leave mine behind, take his cup and the pastry, and walk next door before common sense can regain control of the situation.

The distance between our porches is maybe thirty feet, but it feels longer. His house is quiet when I climb the steps. Up close, I notice the porch is immaculate. No leaves in the corners or loose boards. The rail has been repaired recently, the new wood carefully matched to the old.

I knock.

Nothing.

I wait.

Still nothing.

I know he’s home—unless he climbed out a back window to avoid me, which honestly feels possible.

I knock again, and footsteps sound inside, slow, and heavy. The door opens, and Hewit fills it. He’s taken off his jacket. A dark T-shirt stretches across his shoulders, and I can see more of the scars now, pale lines crossing both forearms. His hair is loose around his face.

“You,” he says. His eyes drop to the coffee. “No.”