Page 13 of Love Again

Of course, I keep telling myself, You’d want her to find someone. And, intellectually, I do. I want her to be happy. But when her car still isn’t here in the morning, a gnawing fear starts in my stomach.

Maybe she’s met someone.

By the time I rise and make the bed, it’s light. Rummaging around on the bookshelf Keller cleared for my stuff, I pull out some running pants, a top, socks, a knitted hat, and some gloves. This early in the spring, your hands can freeze.

I’m pulling on a lightweight fleece when Keller descends the stairs. His saltbox is more like a saltshaker. I bet the blueprint downstairs is no more than eight-hundred square feet. His hair is wild, and he scratches his crotch, takes a beat, and stares at me. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“I’m going out for an easy run.”

Keller stares at me. Hard. Jaw set. He walks to the kitchen sink, reaches up, and takes down four giant quart-size Mason jars. He fills each one with water while I wait for the reprimand.

He sets all four along the back sink. “You need to drink these by noon. You’re not supposed to exercise yet.”

“I feel fine,” I say. “Dana Farber is being careful.”

“You mean Dr. Washington, the guy who’s the expert? Yeah, he told you to be careful. He told you not to exercise.” Now he’s revving into action and starting to tick points off his fingertips. “He also said no sweating, no sudden cardio, no sudden exertion, no leg work, no upper body work—like chopping wood, which you did the other day. Jesus, Luke, you nearly died. You need to listen to these guys. They know what they’re talking about.”

Dr. Washington has morphed into a team of specialists in the space of the conversation.

Standing, I zip the fleece and speak slowly. “I’m taking a slow jog. It’s going to be fine. I promise not to sweat.”

I absolutely do not anticipate the next thing that comes out of my brother’s mouth. “If you need to run for stress reduction ’cause you’re trying not to think of that pretty little girl with the long dark hair, try meditation. I do it. I got a space in the south-facing corner of my bedroom if you want to use it.”

For a second, I don’t know if he’s serious. My brother isn’t typical in any way, shape, or form, but this? The fact that he has a shrine in his room and meditates is both hilarious and really sweet. And he’s offering this private space to me. I’m touched.

“Don’t you wrap up certification this week?”

I nod. “It’s an online test that’s got to be completed by five tomorrow, proctored at the station. Nico is going to serve as proctor. I’m pretty sure I’ll ace it. Then there is a practical I have to do down in Portland, and that’s scheduled for Wednesday. And then, if all goes well, I’ll be a CFI. Finally.”

“A Certified Fire Investigator. We need one here,” says Keller.

My smile is slow. “Not happening. I’m going back to Orono. If you weren’t so bullheaded about me needing babysat, I wouldn’t even be here.”

I start to move out the door and Keller grabs his jacket.

“What are you doing?”

He stands there looking stricken, like he’s already lost the fight. “I’m going to follow you on my bike.”

“No, you are not. It’s one mile. If I’m not back in fifteen minutes, call an ambulance.”

I leave him fretting outside on his front porch in his striped white-and-red pajamas, holding his windbreaker and looking betrayed.

Ink Dot, which is what he named his tiny house, sits perched above the strip of road that parallels Echo Bay. The wharf, which houses a restaurant, sits on the shoreside, and a petrol station waits at the other end. Buttermilk Road is a tiny bit wider than a bike path and winds its way down, through trees and low-growing blueberry bushes. At the bottom, the road flattens out and widens, framed with large, floppy roses that cling to two split-rail fences that flank both sides.

Descending is easy. It isn’t until I hit the bottom that I start to feel the dull ache above my lower back. It’s my kidneys. That’s where the damage is.

Fog rolls off the ocean in thick waves. The sound of the sea is incessant. Relentless during storms, it spits and crashes, but when it’s calm like this, the sea is almost glassy. The water makes comforting sounds as it trickles through pebbles. I stop when I make it to Weaver’s and I step inside. There’s a young brunette woman who looks an awful lot like Devon. She’s a little taller and curvier. When she sees me, the resemblance is uncanny—she even has Devon’s green eyes.

“You look like you need something,” she says.

I nod. “Glass of water? I don’t have any money on me.”

There’s a kick in my left kidney, and I press on it with my hand.

“Back trouble is awful,” she says, taking a guess, and she hands me a large paper cup of water.

I nod while trying to drink. “Yeah.” I drop my hand. My defenses are down. Another jab makes air hiss through my teeth, and she looks concerned. I take the plunge and try to shift her attention. “You’re not related to Devon Russo, are you?”