Chapter 8: The Zipper

Hamish's house sat on the edge of the river behind his boat yard, gray-shingled, with a porch that needed paint.

I had slept there Thursday and Friday, with Ivy in his spare room and Hamish on the living room couch.

He had not complained once about the couch.

On Saturday morning I woke at six to the smell of coffee and pancakes.

Ivy was already at the kitchen table in her slip, with syrup on her chin and her rabbit propped against the sugar bowl.

Hamish stood at the stove in a clean white shirt with the sleeves rolled up.

"I make the shape of a boat," he told her gravely, and flipped a pancake onto her plate.

"It looks like a potato."

"It's a very fast potato."

Ivy giggled, and I wanted to cry from relief.

I stood in the doorway holding my robe closed, and thought, I have not heard her laugh since Wednesday.

He looked up and saw me.

He turned back to the pan quickly.

At eight, the borrowed dress hung on the back of the bedroom door.

I stepped into it and reached around for the zipper, and could not get it past my ribs.

"Hamish?" I called.

He came to the door and stopped.

"The zipper sticks," I said. "Could you?"

He crossed the room slowly.

I turned my back to him and held my hair up with both hands.

His knuckle touched my spine, just below the shoulder blades.

It was a rough knuckle, warm from the kitchen.

The zipper began to climb.

His breath moved the little hairs on the back of my neck.

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