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He went to the counter.

He looked at the inventory sheet.

“Good morning,” Doug said.

“Morning,” Shane said.

Doug turned a page. The pen moved. The store was quiet. Outside, Main Street was doing its post-storm thing, the plows had been through, the sidewalks were being cleared, the industry of a small town after weather.

The morning went on.

At ten fifteen, the door opened and Charlie Keller came in with the energy of a twelve-year-old on a day off from school, wearing approximately four layers and carrying what appeared to be a list from her father.

“Dad needs...” she started, consulting the list, then looked up and found Shane. “Oh, hi. Ms. Hayes was out sketching by the lake this morning. Like, early. In the cold.” She shook her head with the expression of someone who found this charming and baffling in equal measure. “She had a thermos and everything.”

Shane was already looking at the inventory.

“She was sketching in the cold,” he said, without looking up.

“Yeah. She waves at me every time I ride past. She’s out there like every morning now.” Charlie found the first item on her list and began moving toward aisle three. “She’s the best. Dad says...”

“Allie would do that,” Shane said.

The store went quiet.

He became aware of what he’d said approximately one second after he’d said it, not in time to do anything about it, just in time to understand what had happened, the way a name could come out of you before you’d decided to let it out, the way certain things were true before you’d finished deciding they were.

Charlie had stopped walking.

Doug had stopped writing.

The inventory sheet sat on the counter.

“What?” Shane said.

“Nothing,” Doug said. After a pause that was exactly the right length: “Your grandfather used to have a name for your grandmother. One he only used. Said it was just his.” He picked up the pen. “Said it was how he knew it was real, when her name in his mouth started sounding different from everyone else’s.”

Shane looked at the inventory sheet.

Charlie looked between them with the expression of someone witnessing something significant and having the extraordinary self-restraint not to comment on it, which suggested she understood exactly what she’d just witnessed and was storing it for later.

“The bolts are in aisle three,” Shane said. “Second shelf.”

“Right,” Charlie said, and went.

Doug went back to his inventory.

Shane looked at the counter. He thought about Allie said without thinking, about the way it had come out, easy and familiar, the name of someone who had become, without his noticing the exact moment it happened, entirely his to worry about and entirely his to want to make laugh and entirely his, in the way of something that had gotten into you before you’d thought to guard against it.

He didn’t say it again that day.

But it was out there now, in the air of Colter Hardware, and he couldn’t take it back, and he found, sitting with it through the quiet of the post-storm afternoon, the inventory done, the street outside slowly returning to itself, that he didn’t particularly want to.

Allie.

Just his.

Chapter 23