Page 16 of Just One More Thing

“Oh, there’s a clock.” He glances at me then. “Just not the one you’re watching.”

I lean back against the bench and exhale. “You’re annoying in a very comforting way.”

“I’ve been told.”

I look down at my cup and freeze.

There’s writing near the rim. I hadn’t even noticed it.

WORDS HURT BUT SILENCE HAUNTS

Five words.

Willard follows my gaze. “Walt get philosophical again?”

“Apparently.”

He hums. “He does that.”

“I didn’t even see it before.”

“You notice things when you’re ready,” Willard says.

My thumb traces the edge of the cup. “I’m not good at this part.”

“The talking?”

“The part where you go back,” I say. “Where you admit you were wrong and hope the other person doesn’t laugh in your face or politely accept your apology and then disappear forever.”

Willard gives Chip another peanut. “You can’t control the answer.”

“I know.” My voice cracks on it anyway. “That’s the problem.”

Chip takes the peanut, drops it immediately, and chatters at it like the peanut personally betrayed him.

Willard watches with quiet amusement. “You can control whether you ask.”

I nod and peel off another piece of the sleeve. Bits of cardboard gather in my lap as evidence.

“I ran,” I say softly. “I always run.”

“Running keeps you alive,” Willard says. “Staying lets you live.”

I turn to look at him. “Did you practice that?”

“No.” His mouth shifts, almost a smile. “My wife used to say it when I tried to dodge hard conversations.”

“She sounds wise.”

“She was.” His eyes lift toward the sky, fond and far away.

The breeze moves through the branches overhead, and all I hear is leaves and water and the soft chatter of Chip in the grass.

Then a shadow passes over us.

I glance up just as a seagull circles lower.

“That’s French Fry,” Willard says, right about the time the bird dips over my head, and if I hadn’t leaned toward the inside of the bench, I’m fairly sure I would’ve been shit on.