Page 108 of Gap Control

I flicked on the wipers again. The sky couldn’t decide whether to drizzle or dump snow, so it was doing both—classic New England compromise. Mason sat beside me, leaned back in his seat, hoodie hood half-up, one foot tucked under his leg like he’d lived in my car for years.

We hadn’t talked much since pulling out of Lewiston, but it wasn’t weird. If anything, it was… steady. Like a song I didn’t know all the lyrics to but could hum along with anyway.

“I can smell playoffs,” I announced

Mason glanced over. “You can smell playoffs? Are you sure that's not old sneakers in the trunk?”

“Yeah. It’s a vibe. Kind of like sweat mixed with adrenaline.”

I thought about the Christmas gift Peggy had mailed me—a cookbook I’d never use and a handwritten note that said, "You’re doing better than you think." Thought about how I hadn’t given her any recent updates on Mason, but she made it clear she already knew.

“Why’d you say yes to this?” I asked.

Mason turned toward the window, then back to me. “I want to know even more about you, and you didn’t say no when I offered.”

We pulled off at the next exit. A gas station loomed up ahead—weather-beaten, half-lit, and probably selling six kinds of jerky.

“You need gas?” Mason asked.

“No. You need coffee.”

Five minutes later, I handed him a cup—oat milk, one sugar. His usual.

“You remembered,” he said softly.

“Of course, I did.”

His eyes stayed on the lid. He didn’t take a sip. "I love that about you."

I didn’t answer. Not yet, but the inside of the car got warmer.

Twenty minutes later, I parallel parked in front of Peggy's building with the kind of precision that only came from extreme nervousness. Mason had finished his coffee and was methodically shredding the empty cup.

I turned off the engine. "You know she's going to love you, right?"

"Define love, in the family sense."

"Adopt you. Probably ask if you have any single brothers. Definitely try to feed you enough to put you in a coma."

He smiled, but it was tight around the edges. "And if she doesn't?"

"Then she's broken, and we'll get her fixed."

Peggy buzzed us in before I could finish texting “we’re here.” Classic move. She always said she could hear my thoughts before I had the decency to share them.

The elevator had a faint lavender smell. Mason leaned against the mirrored wall, clutching his coffee and watching me.

The doors opened to her floor, and a second later we were standing in the entryway to Peggy’s life: clean lines, warm lighting, and zero clutter. The floors were dark-stained oak, polished but not fussy. Every wall had something interesting on it—local art, a few photographs, and a woven tapestry that looked expensive.

It smelled like lemon oil and chai. There was music playing quietly in the background—something with layered harmonies and a female vocalist I couldn’t place, but definitely not Top 40.

And on the narrow console table by the door: a small ceramic tray full of paperclips, wine corks, and one of my old keychains from high school—a plastic snow globe with a shark inside.

Mason noticed it before I did. He picked it up, turned it over, then glanced at me with raised eyebrows.

“Class of whatever,” he read aloud. “Shark Week High?”

“Shut up,” I muttered.

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