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“I’m aware of that.”

“Like it was...”

“I know, Becca.”

“...a significant event.”

“Can we talk about Marcus? He has a really interesting color sense for his age, I think...”

“You like him,” Becca said.

“I walked into him and spilled coffee on him a week ago. He said it’s fine twice and walked away.”

“And nodded at you today.”

“He was being polite.”

“Uh huh.”

“It wasn’t...”

“Allison.”

She looked out the window. The lake had gone dark now, just the last thin line of light on the water, and above it the first stars were appearing over the eastern ridge, sharp and deliberate in the mountain sky.

“He’s not...” she started. “I’m not... I just got here. I’m not doing this.”

“Okay,” Becca said, in the tone of someone who had said what needed saying and was comfortable waiting.

“I’m not.”

“Okay.”

“I’m here for the job. For me. Not for...”

“Okay, Allison.”

She was quiet.

“He has a really nice face,” she said finally, quietly, like admitting something she’d been not admitting for eleven days.

Becca was silent for a long moment.

“I know,” she said, equally quietly, in the voice she only used when she wasn’t laughing at Allison, when she was actually just with her. “I know.”

* * *

She went to bed early, the mountain dark settling over the cottage, the spruce trees making their breathing sound outside the window.

She thought about Marcus and the purple at the edge of the red.

She thought about Sophie watching everything before she committed to it.

She thought, briefly and against her better judgment, about a single nod from across a street.

She fell asleep before she could think about it too much.

She dreamed about something she couldn’t remember in the morning, but she woke feeling warm, and quiet, and more like herself than she had in years.