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There’s something niggling at me. Amy was reading “Treasure Island” by Robert Louis Stevenson, but she also quoted a poem to Sean, asking him to repeat after her.
I flip through the pages, their smooth vellum flicking across my fingers. Until—there—I hit my finger to the page, pressing sharply into the cool paper.
All alone beside the streams
And up the mountain-sides of dreams.
She was quoting a poem from this book. She was quoting “The Land of Nod.”
Goose bumps rise along my arms and I close the book.
“Mummy?”
“Grandma read this same book to me as a little girl,” I tell her, thinking of the tattered copy my mum kept for nighttime stories. “I was remembering a poem.”
“Can I have my own book?” she asks, her small nose wrinkling. “I’ll bring it to camp, and if you like, I’ll paint a picture of your poem too.”
“Yes, of course you can have your own copy.” I reach over and tug on a strand of her hair, then I hand the book back to her.
“Before we leave, may I pet the cat?”
Mila loves animals. Dogs, cats, fish, insects—really any living thing. It’s why I’m never surprised if she holds out her open palms and there’s an angler worm or a ladybug in her hand.
“We’ll ask the man,” I say, nodding toward the counter.
A moment later, he confirms Gilbert is the type of cat who loves to be pet, especially under his chin and behind his ears.
As we turn toward the window seat where Gilbert stretches lazily in a circle of sun, there’s a chirping ring, muffled by my purse.
It’s Max’s ringtone.
Mila glances between me and the cat, then toward me again.
“If you’d like to pet Gilbert, I’ll just say hello to Max.”
She’s off in a flash, her pink dress spinning with her. I smile and pull my phone free.
“Hello, Max.”
“Fiona,” he says, his voice rolling over my name with a laughing lilt.
I have a flash of Aaron raggedly whispering, “Fi.” My gut clenches, and then I squash the memory. It’s not for this place or this time.
I turn my attention to Max. “You’re in a good mood.” I can tell by the lightness in his voice.
I smile as I drag my hand across the colorful spines of a dozen paperbacks, my fingers thumping over the glossy binding.
Close by, Mila perches on the edge of the window seat, carefully inching toward Gilbert. The cat watches her with yellow-eyed, lazy indifference.
“Am I?” Max asks, the sound of traffic and wind rushing through the connection. “I hadn’t noticed. It’s strange. People have been ducking around corners and hiding behind ugly potted trees all day, every time they see me coming. I thought it was the fact I look like I could chew up a bicycle and spit it out. But perhaps they’re running from my charm.”
“A bicycle?”
“Hmm?”
“Did something happen?”
“No. The ducking and hiding is a normal day. I’ve been told I’m unapproachable.”
