Chapter 6: Independent

Dylan was on the porch at six the next morning with a brace in one hand and two paper cups in the other.

I came out in my socks and found him sitting on the swing seat, looking at the sky.

"Coffee's from the cart on the beach," he said. "I was told you were buying."

"I don't have a job yet."

"Then I'll put it on your tab."

He held out the cup, and I took it.

It was hot and sweet, with too much milk.

It was the best coffee I had ever had, and I did not say so.

"Sit," he said, patting the swing.

I sat, and he knelt in front of me on the porch boards and slid the old boot off.

This time I watched his hands.

They were scarred across the knuckles, and he worked the brace on without tugging anything.

"You'll need to ice it," he said. "Twenty minutes, twice a day. And keep it up."

"I know how to take care of a sprain."

"Then you're better at it than the hospital."

I laughed.

I hadn't meant to.

He looked up at me from the porch boards, and he smiled for the first time since I'd met him.

It was a lopsided smile with one dimple, and I looked away at the lemon tree.

"The brace is free," he said.

"How much is a brace?"

"Hanne."

"How much?"

He sighed.

"Forty dollars at the supply shop."

I took two twenties out of my coat pocket and put them in his hand.

He closed his fingers around them.

"Thank you," he said, quite seriously, and tucked them into his shirt.

I had expected him to argue.

Nobody in my family had ever just let me pay.

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