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I considered the question. We'd talked about the case, our lives, his career, and my writing. He'd admitted that he'd gone to Baltimore partly because he hoped to reconnect with me, only to convince himself that he'd missed his chance. He'd said he still loved me, and he hadn't tried to pretend that a single breakfast could fix the damage between us. I didn't need to go over every word again to know the conversation had mattered. The fact that I was still thinking about it hours later was evidence enough.

“It was awkward in places,” I admitted. “And painful in others. But it was easier than I'd expected.”

“I'm glad.”

I waited for her to ask more, but she didn't. That restraint touched me more than another dozen questions would have. Mom might be curious, and she might already be imagining a happy ending, but she was giving me room to figure out what I wanted before she tried to help me get it.

“Don't get carried away,” I warned her.

“I wouldn't dream of it.”

“Mom.”

“I said I wouldn't.”

I could hear Dad in the background asking where she'd put his sunglasses. She called back that they were on his head, and he responded that he'd been looking for them everywhere. I closed my eyes again, grateful for the interruption.

“Please tell me he isn't planning to use the metal detector while wearing sunglasses he can't find.”

“He says the sunglasses are irrelevant to the metal detector, but that he could use it to see if he dropped them outside, as they’ve got metal frames.”

I laughed, the tension easing out of my shoulders. Whatever else was going on in Hartwell Cove, my parents were still my parents. Dad was still determined to turn every holiday into an adventure, and Mom was still documenting the evidence while pretending she wasn't encouraging him. Their familiar nonsense had given me a little breathing room, and I hadn't realized how much I needed it until I felt myself relax.

“I should let you get back to your day,” Mom said. “Your father wants to find out whether the visitor center has any information about local history.”

“Please make sure he asks before he takes his metal detector anywhere. And maybe check whether the visitor center has a sign about digging before you let him out of the RV.”

“I'll do my best.”

“Mom, I mean it.”

“So do I, darling.”

I had my doubts, but I let it go. “Love you.”

“Love you, too. And Max?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm glad you had breakfast with Josiah.”

I sighed, unable to keep the affection out of my voice. “Goodbye, Mom.”

She laughed and ended the call.

For a moment, I sat there with the phone in my hand, listening to the quiet of the house. Then I set it down and looked at my laptop. I should have been relieved. The conversation had been a welcome distraction, and the photographs of Dad's latest escapade had given me a much-needed laugh. Instead, I found myself thinking about Mom's final comment.

I'm glad you had breakfast with Josiah.

So was I, I realized, although I wasn't ready to examine that feeling too closely.

Breakfast hadn't fixed anything. It hadn't erased the years between us or made the hurt of Josiah's leaving any less real. I still didn't know whether I could forgive him, let alone trust him with my heart again. Part of me wanted to believe that the man sitting across from me at Dixie’s was the person I'd loved all those years ago, someone who understood me in ways nobody else quite had. Another part remembered how thoroughly he'd shattered that trust and warned me that love alone wouldn't guarantee a different ending.

But he'd driven me home last night, and I'd agreed to meet him this morning. We'd talked, and for the first time in a long time, I'd been able to look at him without seeing only the boy who'd left me behind. I'd seen the man he'd become, too, and I couldn't deny that I wanted to know him better.

That had to mean something, even if I wasn't ready to decide what.

I turned back to my manuscript and reread the last few paragraphs. The scene wasn't finished, but at least I'd made progress today. I could add another few hundred words before dinner if I stopped thinking about my parents' adventures and concentrated on my own fictional problems. Writing had always been a place I could retreat to when the rest of my life became too complicated, and I needed that steadiness now more than ever.