He reached across the table. She took his hand. Darius pretended not to notice, which was the kindest thing he could have done. A week before Christmas, Marcus fixed the south end of the fence. He had the lumber already, had been meaning to get to it, but he took his time that Saturday morning, working carefully, doing it right, Clare came out with coffee, his black, no sugar, exactly the way he took it, which she now knew without asking, and set it on the fence post beside him, and stood there watching him work, the way people watch someone they care about do a thing they're good at.
You're good at this, she said. Fixing fences. Fixing things, she said in general. He drove a nail. I've been doing it a long time.
I know, she said. But you're also you're gentle with it. You don't force things. You find the right fit. He stopped, looked at her.
She was looking at the fence, not at him, but she knew he was looking. I've been thinking, she said. Yeah. About the spring, she said. About what this looks like in the spring.
What do you want it to look like? He said. She was quiet for a moment. I want to still be here, she said. Not because of the lease.
Because I want to be, she paused. I want Darius to have a game in March, and I want to be in the stands. I want to take that job in Durham and come home and tell you how it went. I want, she stopped herself, gathered. I want this to be what it's becoming.
That's what I want it to look like. Marcus put down the hammer. He turned to face her. She turned to face him. Then that's what it's going to look like, he said.
She looked at him for a second. Then you're sure, Clare? He said, I've been sure since the night you came to my kitchen with that letter. She held his gaze. I was afraid, she said.
So was I. Are you still? He thought about it a little, but not of this. Not of you. She looked at him for a long moment.