Page 11 of The Man in the Cottage

"I'll think about it," I say.

"That's all I'm asking."

I hang up and sit there for a while, watching the kids in the parking lot. They're playing some kind of game now, arguing about rules, completely absorbed in something that won't matter in an hour. I wonder what that feels like, to care that much about something so small.

My phone buzzes. A text from a number I don't recognize.

Hey, it's Kelly. Got your number from the emergency contact list my grandma left. Hope that's okay.

I stare at the screen for a second, my heart doing something stupid in my chest.

That's fine, I type back. Everything okay?

Yeah, all good. Just wanted to say thanks again for the help this week. You've been really great.

No problem.

Three dots appear, then disappear, then appear again. I watch them pulse for what feels like a long time.

I made chili, she finally says. Way too much for one person. If you want to come by for dinner, there's plenty.

I should say no. Every smart part of my brain is telling me to keep my distance, not to get more tangled up in her life than I already am. In two weeks I might be gone. In two weeks everything might be different. Getting closer to her now is just going to make it harder to leave.

I type back before I can stop myself.

What time?

Her chili is good. Really good. I'm on my second bowl before I realize I've barely said anything, just sitting at her grandmother's kitchen table shoveling food into my mouth like I haven't eaten in days.

"Sorry," I say, setting down my spoon. "I didn't realize how hungry I was."

Kelly's across from me, her own bowl barely touched, watching me with an expression I can't quite read. "Don't apologize. It's nice to cook for someone who actually eats."

"You don't eat?"

"I eat." She shrugs. "I just forget sometimes. When I'm working on something."

"The book?"

"Yeah." She picks up her spoon, pushes a kidney bean around her bowl. "It's going better, actually. Since we talked. That thing you said about the wife—I've been thinking about it a lot."

I remember. The wife who sees things but doesn't want to look. I'm not sure where that came from, what made me say it out loud. It just felt true.

"Glad it helped," I say.

"It did. More than you know." She looks up at me, and something in her expression shifts, gets more serious. "Can I ask you something?"

Here it comes. The question I've been waiting for, the one I've been dreading. Who are you? What are you hiding? Why did my grandmother let you live here?

"Sure," I say, because what else can I say?

"What do you do? For work, I mean. You're gone in the mornings, you have that nice truck, but I realized I have no idea what you actually do."

It's not the question I expected. It's easier and harder at the same time.

"I'm between things right now," I say. "Figuring out my next move."

She nods slowly, like she's filing that away. "That makes two of us, I guess."