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Tuesday.

He knows I have an early appointment tomorrow. I smile as I set my bag down.

A few months ago, I would’ve noticed the volume because I was waiting for it to become a problem. Now I notice because I know he changed it for me.

Last week I came home to coffee waiting on my porch. He’d passed the place I like on his way back from rehearsal and knew my schedule well enough to time it so it would still be hot when I got there.

Two nights ago, I realized around seven that he hadn’t come out of his house all afternoon. I carried over the pasta I’d made, knocked, and handed it to him with strict instructions to eat something that didn’t come out of a coffee mug.

I change into leggings and an old sweatshirt, make tea, and carry it to the couch with the coastal art book I bought from Sloane.

The music next door changes while I’m flipping through the first few pages of the book. I recognize Zander’s guitar immediately, but the song is new, so I stop reading and listen when he starts again from the beginning.

The melody is softer than most of the newer Hollow North material I’ve heard, though it still has that rough edge underneath it. His voice carries faintly through the wall, not clearly enough for me to catch every word, but I hear pieces. Something about a light left on, a door close by, knowing someone’s home without seeing them.

I lower the book into my lap. When he stops halfway through and starts over again, I shift to the end of the couch nearest the wall. I can hear more from here, including a line about learning someone’s mornings and another about silence not feeling empty anymore.

For a second, I wonder if I’m reading too much into it. Zander writes songs for a living, and songwriters pull from everywhere. Places, conversations, things they notice once and turn into something completely different later. A few familiar details don’t automatically mean the song has anything to do with me.

Then he sings something about a wall being thinner than distance, and it gets a lot harder to believe I’m imagining the connection.

The song ends, and I stay where I am, waiting. When he starts it again, I consider knocking or texting him to ask what he’s working on, but I can’t quite make myself do it. If I’m wrong, I’ll feel ridiculous for assuming. If I’m right, I’m not sure I’m ready to hear him say it.

Chapter twenty

ZANDER

By the time Ruby and I come through the side gate, Dad’s at the grill, Conlin is digging through the cooler for a beer, and Mom is sitting at the patio table talking to Briar while Sloane makes faces at Jack beside them.

She spots Ruby before she spots me. “Ruby, come here. I need another opinion.”

Ruby slows beside me. “That sounds dangerous.”

“Prepare yourself.”

She laughs and heads toward the table, where Briar immediately shifts Jack’s carrier out of the way so Ruby can pull up a chair. Sloane says something to her before she’s even fully seated, and within seconds they’re all talking over each other.

I’m still watching when Dad calls from the grill. “Zander, hand me that plate, would you?”

I grab it from the table and carry it over. Dad takes it with a quick nod and starts transferring burgers off the grill.

I grab a beer from the cooler and lean against the railing for a minute. Ruby has already reached down to check on Jack, and Briar is telling her something that makes her laugh. Mom jumps in with her version, Sloane disagrees with both of them, and Ruby looks completely at ease in the middle of it.

The next time I look that way, Ruby has Jack in her arms and Mom is showing Sloane something on her phone. Conlin and Lachlin are leaning against the railing, beers in hand, while Lachlin fills him in on a recent rescue call.

It’s loud in the familiar way. Everybody talking over each other, somebody laughing from the other side of the yard, Jack making small noises every few minutes that immediately pull Briar’s attention even when she’s trying not to hover.

Ruby fits into it without trying.

Dad calls me over when he’s halfway through turning the second batch of burgers. “Do you think I should ask Ruby if she can fix this?”

He pushes up the sleeve of his T-shirt and shows me the old tattoo on his upper arm. It used to be some kind of anchor, though time hasn’t been especially kind to it.

Ruby comes over when she hears her name and takes a closer look. “How old is that?”

“I was twenty-two.”

She tilts her head, studying the faded lines. “Honestly, the fact that I can still tell it’s an anchor puts you ahead of a lot of people.”