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COLE

Sleep wasn’t happening. I’d spent enough nights awake for bad reasons to know the difference. This time there was no job going wrong and no weather to track. There was just Emmy.

Usually, I liked the quiet out here. I’d built my life around it on purpose. Tonight it felt wrong. She’d spent one night in my house and left pieces of herself everywhere. The mug she’d used sat next to the sink, a page of her tree instructions had fallen under the coffee table, and I’d found a strand of her hair on my pillowcase when I climbed into bed.

I’d told her not to try to figure anything out earlier tonight in her office. That had seemed like a good idea with her tucked in tight against me. Now I was alone trying to figure out exactly what the hell we were doing.

By six-thirty I’d given up and was in the garage unloading equipment that didn’t need to be dealt with until later. Everything had a place, and putting it there gave me something to focus on.

At eight-fifteen, my phone buzzed.

EMMY: Are you awake?

ME: Yeah. Working.

EMMY: I’m not surprised.

I waited for another message. Nothing came. I set the phone down, picked up a strap, then picked the phone back up.

ME: You okay?

EMMY: I’m fine. Just wanted to say hi.

I read it twice. She didn’t need anything. She wasn’t asking about the tree or the roads. She’d just wanted to talk to me. I typed three answers before settling on the safest one.

ME: Hi.

EMMY: You’re terrible at this.

A laugh slipped out.

ME: At texting?

EMMY: At being charming before breakfast.

ME: Thought you liked me anyway.

I regretted it as soon as I hit send. It felt like getting too close to something I wasn’t ready to name.

EMMY: Unfortunately.

I smiled despite myself and shoved the phone in my pocket before I said anything else.

Work helped for a while. I loaded a dining set, answered calls, and explained to one customer that we were not carrying a piano down an icy staircase until someone cleared a path. Those were normal problems. Problems I knew how to solve.

Still, every time my phone buzzed, I checked to see if it was Emmy.

That was new, and I didn’t like it.

I ran a few deliveries after lunch, and by late afternoon I turned down Main Street. Big Wood was getting ready for tomorrow’s festival. Barricades blocked both ends, and volunteers moved folding tables and food-drive bins between storefronts while Christmas music drifted from somebody’s speakers.

I could have headed home. Instead, I parked and walked a hundred yards toward Wrapped on Main.

Emmy stood outside the front door wrestling with a wooden sign, a pencil shoved through the knot in her hair, trying to tighten a loose bracket with a screwdriver about the size of her pinky.

She looked up when I got close, and her whole face changed. That was becoming a problem too.

“Are you using your purse screwdriver?” I asked.