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“I guess?”

“Well, I’m glad.” Joss cuts around the kitchen and gives me a warm, one-armed hug. “Let me know if you need help with anything, yeah? I’ll be outside continuing my futile quest to get rid of the dandelions.”

“We’ll be on our own futile quest,” Mei mutters, and I gasp.

Joss barks a laugh and makes for the back door. “Smells good, at least.”

“Thankyou,” I say indignantly, raising my eyebrows at Mei. She watches me pepper the eggs and accidentally dust the entire counter with a shower of black specks, then raises her eyebrows right back.

My phone trills from the table. My heart does this hot, painful clenching thing, like it’s trying to squeeze out from between my ribs. I’m always ready for it to be Nate, admitting that he made a mistake. Not because I want him back—because I want to be someone with enough gravity for him to regret losing me.

But it’s only Henry, a few simple words.

Have an update on permits. Can I come by 2pm?

Seven

By the time Henry showsup, Mei’s gone back downtown to meet Andy and I’ve set the entire kitchen island with the spoils of our morning together: a platter of my crumbly muffins, little glass jars of yogurt with granola on top, buttered toast piled with scrambled eggs, plain pancakes burned only on one side (stacked burned-side-down), a giant bowl of glistening berries, and two fresh mugs of coffee.

I’m expecting Henry in his vet clothes: dark slacks, a checkered button-down, the white coat with his name stitched over his heart. But it’s a Sunday, and when I open the front door he’s on my porch in worn-looking Levi’s and a CSU Rams T-shirt. He’s holding a thin stack of papers. When I offer him one of the coffee cups, he extends the papers toward me.

At the exact same moment, we both say, “What’s this?”

“Coffee,” I tell him, as he says, “The Estes Park Vacation Home Regulations.”

I riffle through the pages, clocking the edge-to-edge fine print. “Ah.”

Henry lifts the mug at me. “Thanks.”

Behind him, across the street, I see Martina step outside with Custard the St. Bernard. She waves at me, and when I return it, Henry glances over one shoulder and lifts his own hand. Martina looks startled to see him, her smile wide and surprised, and when he points to his watch she nods.

I wait for Henry to explain, but he only turns his eyes back on me and stands, frozen, with the coffee cup.

Well.I step backward into the entryway. “Do you want to come in?”

Henry tips his head, eyes casting over mine. His gaze flicks to the hall behind me and he swallows, like he’s bracing himself, before he finally says, “Okay.”

Inside he stands perfectly still and keeps his gaze trained to his coffee, like he needs to be invited to take up space here.

“We can get the permit by the end of the month,” he tells me. The stubble traced along his jaw is dark and rough. When I dip past him to shut the door, he smells like soap—bright, unexpected citrus. “But there’s a lot in there you’ll need to take note of. Occupancy restrictions, and quiet hours, and rules about vehicles.”

“Absolutely,” I say. I meant what I told him in that exam room: he can trust me. “I’ll give it a read. Is that—” I hesitate, and he finally looks up from his coffee to meet my eyes. In the afternoon light the hallway is bright and warm. “All you needed? Because I was hoping to show you what I’ve been working on.”

I want Henry to be excited about this. I want him to understand how seriously I’m taking it. I also, admittedly, want to see if I can get him to crack a smile.

“Oh.” He glances back at the coffee, which he still hasn’t taken one sip of, and then down the hallway into the kitchen. When he swallows again, I watch it move through the long column of his throat. “No, I didn’t have anything else.”

“Great.” I smile, and he doesn’t return it. Instead, his eyes cast over the house: taking in the photos I’ve framed on the walls, the turtle-shaped lamp on the side table, the maple-scented candle crackling from the dining room. I hardly use it and it’s more of a library, these days: a long table framed on all sides in bookshelves, stacked high with my favorite poetry collections and mythology retellings. With Nate on the road, I always had time to read.

“Well,” I say. “I’ve been working on the breakfast menu.” When I start down the hall, Henry follows me quietly. “Muffins and eggs and granola and fruit. If we’re still going next summer, we can do Palisade peaches. And coffee.” I turn back to raise my mug at him, but he’s staring across the living room at my gallery wall. It frames the fireplace, extending like scattered seedlings on either side: a photo of Goldie and me when I was in high school, bundled like mummies in a snowstorm; a pencil sketch of the Flatirons Mei drew for an art credit during our senior year of college; every little painting and memory and talisman I’ve added to my collection since moving in here at twenty-two.

I sniff a little and wave a hand over the spread on the counter. Henry’s eyes flick across it in silence.

“Any input on the menu?”

He swallows, and it looks effortful—like he’s choking. His voice, when it finally comes, is quiet. “No.”

I paste on a smile. “Well, I’m open to feedback. Or I canshow you the guest rooms—I’m working on installing individual locks, and I’ve got little nameplates for each one, like, ‘The Aspen Room’ and ‘The Juniper Room,’ that sort of thing.”