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She blinks. "What?"

"The clipboard. The committees. Restocking napkins at the cider stand, running the craft booth, volunteering at Factory of Screams. You're still holding everything together."

"Somebody has to."

"Somebody doesn't have to be you. Every time."

Her fingers tighten around mine. For a second her composure wobbles. The sunshine dims and underneath is a woman who has been running since she was seven years old and never once asked anybody to run with her.

"You're not as dumb as you look," she whispers.

"Thanks."

"I mean it." She turns my hand over, traces a line across my palm. Sawdust still caught in the creases. "You see things other people don't bother looking for."

"I build things. Looking is the whole job."

Dolly clears the glasses without a word. Hank turns up the music slightly. Outside, Maple Lane is going dark, string lights popping on block by block.

We sit in that booth for two more hours. Talking about nothing important. Talking about everything. Her students. My furniture. The time Jaylen brought a live frog to class in his lunch box. The time I accidentally shipped a headboard to Alaska instead of Alabama and had to drive to the post office at midnight.

At nine, I walk her to her car. The October air is sharp. Her breath makes little clouds.

"Friday morning," she says. "The beam."

"I'll be there at seven."

"Rhett?"

"Yeah."

She steps close. Goes up on her toes. Presses a kiss to my cheek so near the corner of my mouth that my entire body locks up. Her lips are warm and soft and gone before I can turn my head.

"Goodnight." She's already in the car, engine starting, pulling away with a wave through the window.

I stand in Hank's parking lot with my hands in my pockets and whiskey warming my chest and the ghost of her mouth on my skin.

Hank appears in the doorway behind me. "You gonna stand out there all night or you gonna come help me close up?"

"I'm gonna stand here a minute."

"Yeah." His voice is uncharacteristically gentle. "I figured."

CHAPTER FOUR

KENNEDY

Festival Friday starts at six a.m. and doesn't slow down.

By seven, Rhett's truck is in Hank's parking lot. He carries a cedar beam through the bar's back door without saying good morning to anyone. An hour later he walks out with sawdust on his flannel and tells Hank the beam is solid.

"What do I owe you?" Hank asks.

"Nothing."

"I'm not a charity case, Gallagher."

"Then buy me a whiskey next time I'm in."