Page 55 of Soft Serve

His fingers close around mine immediately, the way they always do, easy and certain, like this is simply what hands do when they find each other.

"Show me," I say. "When it's ready. I want to see it."

He looks at me with the expression I've come to know as the one that appears when something lands somewhere he wasn't expecting, warm and slightly undone.

"Okay," he says quietly.

We stand on the dock with the water below us and the evening settling overhead, and Hearts Bend glowing warm in the distance, and I think about a year ago, this same dock, this same water, a choice I made with my eyes open and my hands shaking.

I think about everything that followed.

The fractures and the repairs. The mornings that arrived without drama mattered more than the dramatic ones. The recipe box is open on the counter. The jar of preserves. The side door and the alley and Mrs. Calder's verdict and Theo's blunt, honest observation and Millie's hugs that last exactly as long as they need to.

I think about a shop that my grandmother built, and I inherited and made mine, and a man who walked into it like he owned the air and learned, slowly and imperfectly and with genuine effort, what it means to belong to something instead.

My phone buzzes in my pocket.

I already know.

GROUP CHAT — NATIONAL ICE CREAM DAY GIRLS

Millie:

Okay so. Annual check-in. Where are we?

Lucia:

I have eyes on the dock situation via Mrs Calder's very detailed text message.

Mari:

Mrs Calder texts now???

Lucia:

Apparently, she learned for occasions of importance.

Mari:

Paloma. Report.

I look at Charles, at his profile in the fading light, at the man who drove forty minutes before sunrise for a jar of preserves and renegotiated my supplier contracts without saying a word, and is teaching himself to build a workbench because he wants it right.

Paloma:

We're on the dock.

Millie:

AND.

Paloma:

And nothing. We're just here.

Mari:

That's everything, though, isn't it?