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Sunday morning. Five-twelve. One mug in the rack.

The bed is cold. Has been cold since Friday night, when she walked off my farm with my flannel and I let her go because I was too busy being right to be smart.

I'm not right. My mother told me that at six a.m. Saturday, when I called her from the porch in the dark.

"You did exactly what I told you not to do," she said. "You decided she was leaving before she decided anything."

"She has a contract, Mom."

"She has an offer. Those aren't the same thing. Did she say she was taking it?"

"She said she needed to think."

"Thinking isn't leaving, Deck. Thinking is what adults do before they make decisions. You should try it sometime."

Hilda told me the same thing yesterday, in fewer words, when I went to the general store for coffee.

"You're an idiot," she said, handing me my change. "That girl has been glowing all week. She photographs your farm. She cooks in your kitchen. She wore your flannel to town on Thursday, and I saw her face when she talked about you. That's not a woman who's planning to leave."

"She's got a career."

"So do you. Doesn't mean you can't share a zip code." Hilda leaned on the counter. "Deck, honey. Your mother called me."

"Of course she did."

"She said, and I'm quoting: tell my son to get his head out of his pumpkin patch and go talk to that girl before I fly up there and do it for him."

Maggie's diner was worse. Walked in for takeout, and Maggie set a coffee in front of me without asking.

"Heard you ran off the photographer," she said.

"I didn't run her off."

"She's been at the inn all weekend. Room 12. Hasn't come out except to eat. Carol says she looks like she's been crying." Maggie leveled me with a look that could strip paint. "That girl ate my pie, Deck. She looked me in the eye and told me the lattice crust was the best she'd ever seen. I will not forgive you if you break her heart."

Everyone in this town knows my business. Always have. Normally it makes my jaw ache. Today it's the only reason I know she's still here.

Room 12. She hasn't left.

The coffee sits untouched on the counter. Outside, the mountains are catching first light, peaks going pink. The east pasture is quiet. Gerald is standing on the water trough, staring at nothing. The farm looks the same as it did two weeks ago, before she came.

Except it doesn't. Because now there's a second mug in the cabinet that has no purpose. A jar of herbed mayo in the fridge she made and left behind. Her laptop charger plugged into the wall by the table. The flannel is gone, but the hook where it used to hang is empty in a way I notice every time I pass it.

Two weeks. She's been in my life for two weeks. My marriage lasted three years, and Beth leaving didn't carve out a space this size.

My phone buzzes.

Mom:

It's Sunday. Have you talked to her yet?

Me:

No.

Mom:

Deck Allen Connors.