Chapter 21: What He Said

We did not go home to Ridge Street.

Cal drove through the snow to the harbor flats with one hand on the wheel and the other wrapped around mine.

The boat shop was dark and cold, and the pale launch stood on its stands in the middle of the floor.

He lit the stove, and the tin walls began to tick as they warmed.

"Say it," I said. "Whatever you meant to say in the shop."

He stood across the stove from me, and I listened to him not know where to start.

"I wrote the sentence because I thought you'd want out," he said. "You never said you wanted in."

"I said it with my mouth. I said it with my hands. I said it at a gala in front of a camera."

"You said thank you."

"I said thank you for not tapping, Cal."

"I know that now." He drew a breath. "But a woman doesn't owe a stranger that much, and I thought the rest was gratitude."

"Gratitude is for bread," I said.

He gave a short, startled laugh.

"I drank your coffee every morning for weeks, and I never once thought I owed you a bed."

I crossed the floor, and he met me in the middle, and I laid my palms flat on his chest.

His heart was going hard.

"The terms said ninety days," I said. "I'm not leaving on the ninetieth. I never planned to."

"Then why did you write it down?"

"Because I couldn't ask for what I wanted on a napkin in a diner."

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