Page 55

People leave coffee cups in the sink. They ask questions they aren't prepared to hear answered. They move books without putting them back where they belong. They make noise.

For 15 years, this cottage has belonged entirely to me. Now, less than 24 hours after Morrow knocked on my front door, Rhett Cambridge is standing in my kitchen making coffee like he never left.

I watch him from the doorway.

"You know where I keep the mugs."

He glances over one shoulder.

"They're where they've always been."

"I've never lived in this house before."

His hand pauses on the cabinet.

"...Right."

A tiny victory. Petty. Entirely satisfying. He closes the cabinet and reaches for another instead.

Wrong one. Then another. Still wrong. I fold my arms.

"You were saying?"

A reluctant smile tugs at one corner of his mouth.

"I got lucky once."

"Clearly."

Finally, he finds the mugs.

"I preferred being right."

"I know."

"You always hated that."

"I hated how smug you looked."

"I was never smug."

I laugh. Actually laugh. The sound surprises both of us. For one strange second, we're 22 again, arguing over absolutely nothing because neither of us wants to admit we're enjoying the conversation.

Then reality returns. Morrow clears his throat from the dining room. The moment shatters. Rhett hands me a mug anyway.

"I don't remember asking."

"You didn't."

I look into the cup. Black coffee. Exactly how I drink it. He remembers. I wish he didn't. Or maybe I wish I didn't notice.

I take the mug without thanking him. He doesn't seem offended. Morrow sits at my dining table with his phone in front of him.

"I think it happened again."

I set my coffee down.

"What happened?"