She's Lauren, Diane said. That answer carried more than it said. I stood and wiped my hands on a rag. That bad? No, not bad.
She looked toward the fence. She's chasing what she thinks she wants. And what's that? Diane's eyes came back to mine. Something that never asks her to sit still long enough to know herself.
The words landed quietly. Too quietly. I looked down first. The gate swung better now, but the latch still needed adjusting. I needed another 20 minutes, maybe 30 if I worked slowly, which I was trying not to admit I wanted to do.
Diane stepped onto the porch and pulled off her gloves. "Finish the fence," she said, "and I'll make lunch." I froze with one hand on the latch. Not because the sentence was improper. It wasn't. It was simple, domestic, almost innocent.
But something about the way she said it, not flirtatious exactly, not bold, not careless, made the whole yard feel warmer, like she wasn't only offering food, like she was asking me to stay a little longer. I turned toward her. She held my gaze for half a second too long. Then she looked down at the gloves in her hand. "You don't have to," she added.
There it was. The line decent people draw after saying something they maybe meant too much. I should have said I had another job. I should have packed up after the latch worked and driven away with the radio on. Instead, I looked at the crooked gate, then back at her.
"I can finish it," I said. Diane nodded once, and the small smile she tried to hide was the first thing that made me wonder if the fence was the only thing broken enough to bring me back there. Lunch should not have felt intimate. It was a sandwich. turkey, tomato, sharp cheddar, toasted bread, mustard on the side because Diane remembered I didn't like it spread too thick. That detail bothered me more than it should have.
Not because it was romantic, because it was remembered. Lauren used to forget small things and then call them small because that made forgetting them less expensive. Diane remembered them quietly without making a speech out of it. I washed my hands at the kitchen sink while she moved around behind me, opening cabinets, setting plates on the counter, pouring iced tea into two glasses. The house looked almost the same as it had when Lauren and I were together.
Same yellow curtains over the window. Same ceramic bowl near the door where everyone dropped keys. Same old radio on the shelf above the stove. But without Lauren's constant motion, the place felt different. Still not empty, just honest.
You didn't have to make anything, I said. I know. That's becoming your favorite answer. She smiled at the cutting board. Maybe I learned it from someone.
I dried my hands on the towel beside the sink. From me? You were always very good at helping without letting people make a ceremony out of it. That stopped me. Diane kept slicing tomato like she hadn't said anything dangerous.
I leaned back against the counter. Lauren used to call that boring. Her knife paused just once, then she continued. Lauren called a lot of things boring before she understood them. There it was again.