Page 68 of The Words We Lost

I want to hold it close.

Joel’s house sits at the farthest edge of town, bordering the county line nearly fifteen minutes from Cece’s cottage. Rita is near a complete meltdown as we exit Joel’s car and step onto the driveway, and Rontu is no better. As soon as Joel swings open the front door of his single-story Craftsman, the two puppies are a tumble of fur and delight. I squat to give Rontu a few undivided seconds of my affection before he’s off again.

I don’t miss the way Joel’s gaze sweeps over me the same way it did for most of the ride over: like I’m an apparition that might disappear if he looks away.

I smile up at him, and he reaches for my hand and pulls me to my feet, offering me a house tour that’s finished before my many curiosities are properly satisfied. When he heads to the kitchen to prep for dinner, I hang back and meander through the great room for a second time, glancing up at the exposed beams in the vaulted ceiling before crossing into the open dining area. Joel’s not necessarily a minimalist, but he’s definitely organized and clean. A trait he comes by honestly, considering the life of hospitality he’s grown upin. The paint on the walls is light, and the furniture he’s selected is dark. And all of it feels right for him.

Joel’s home tours like a posh real estate ad: a spacious, modern floor plan of three bedrooms and a convertible den, boasting gorgeous plank hardwoods and large wall-to-wall windows with perfect views of the grand Olympic Mountains I haven’t had my fill of yet.

Maybe because that’s what surprises me the most: It’s not close to the water. Not a significant body of water, anyway.

I gaze out at the back patio, which is likely the best view in the house, and spot a narrow creek that runs as far as my eye can see, as does the acreage his home is situated on. The property is dotted with glorious weeping willows, spruce, and fir trees, and the beauty of it makes the tip of my nose tingle with oncoming tears.

It’s like looking at a visual representation of everything I was so desperate for as a child—grounding, stability, peace.

Standing here, it’s impossible not to think of all the could-have-beens if life had worked out differently. My gaze trails to the fenced-in area below the far edge of the deck. It’s occupied by a dog run and some kind of canine agility course I’m sure Rontu and Rita can’t get enough of.

As if summoned by my assessment of his outdoor living space, Rontu brushes against my ankle and whines. His sister follows his lead.

“Mind letting them out?” Joel asks, leaning against the open archway of the kitchen. I don’t have a clue how long he’s been watching me, but I unlatch the door for the pups, and they jet outside at high speed. Rontu bounds across the yard and snatches up a rope toy only to toss it into the air and catch it mid-arch. A solo game he repeats multiple times despite Rita’s attempts to grab it.

“He’s obviously quite shy and laid-back,” Joel deadpans.

“Obviously.” I don’t dare drag my gaze away from the property when I say, “It’s like a nature reserve out here. Beautiful.”

“There’s a question in there somewhere. I can hear it brewing.” He prods gently.

“I’m guess I’m just surprised you didn’t choose something closer to your family, to the hotel.”To the wateris what I don’t say.

He studies me for a long moment. “A girl I once knew told me that a home on land was superior to a home on the water simply because you’d never have to worry about it floating away when you wanted to stay put.” The corner of his mouth tips north along with his shoulder. “Guess I thought it was advice worth hanging on to.”

He must see how his remembrance of something I told him nearly a decade ago affects me, because he moves to stand at my side and points to a spot just beyond the willows. “You can’t quite see it from here, but that little creek out there eventually connects to Discovery Bay.”

“How close is it?”

“About a half mile walk or so. We can take the dogs out that way after dinner if you’re up for it.”

I nod, though it’s not the dogs or the bay I’m thinking about at the moment, but rather all the moments that have made up all the years where there was nothing but silence between the two of us.

Joel inclines his head. “Shall we?”

I follow him into a kitchen that could be featured on HGTV. Four swivel stools are stationed at the massive slab of white quartz Joel has directed me to sit at while he cooks. The pendant lights overhead catch the ribbons of silver and gray trailing throughout the island. But what snags at my attention the most are the memoir pages that took a beating at the lighthouse yesterday. Joel’s pinned them flat with the help of weighty, hardback books. I spot a dictionary, a business textbook, and a giant Strong’s Bible Concordance.

“I meant to move those earlier, sorry,” he says. “I’ll get my backpack out of the way, too.”

“Don’t worry about it. There’s plenty of space for me here. Unless, of course, you’ve changed your mind about letting me help you with dinner?”

“I haven’t.” He turns, smiles, and pulls out a wooden cutting board and then the ingredients from the fridge. “A favor for a favor.”

“Rita slept ninety percent of the time she was at the cottage with me. A homecooked meal hardly feels like an equal trade-off.” I select a stool near the manuscript as Joel sets a Diet Coke in front of me.

“We can agree to disagree on that then.”

We clink our soda bottles together and each take a sip.

“I had a good talk with Madison this afternoon,” I say.

“Oh yeah? What about?”

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