Page 16 of Where We Stay

“Yep. Born and raised,” she replies. “And don’t worry, I’m not going to interrogate you. Mary used up the town’s question quota last night.”

A quiet laugh escapes me. “Thank you.”

“Although, if you’ve murdered anyone, I’d appreciate some warning.”

“No promises.”

“Fair enough.”

Something in my chest loosens.

She accepts the change in conversation without making me feel strange for needing it. Something I don’t think she’ll ever realize I’m grateful for.

“Was this your family’s house?” I ask, nodding toward her cottage.

“No. My parents lived closer to town.” G looks down at her coffee. “I lost them four years ago and inherited their place, but I couldn’t stay there.”

“I’m sorry, G.”

“Thank you.” She gives me a small smile. “It just didn’t feel like mine. Something about sleeping down the hall from my dead parents’ bedroom gave me the heebie-jeebies.” She shivers dramatically, but the sadness beneath it doesn’t disappear.

“So, I sold it and bought this place,” she continues, gesturing toward her house. “Close enough to town that I don’t feel isolated, but far enough away that Mary can’t watch me through her kitchen window.”

“She’d probably find a way.”

“Oh, she absolutely would.” I reach across and squeeze G’s hand. She squeezes mine back.

“I’m okay now,” she assures me. “I still have my days, but therapy is a godsend.”

Her tone is light, but I recognize the look on her face. She’s ready to stop talking about her parents.

I understand that better than most.

“I’m actually starting at Hartwell Elementary on Monday,” I tell her, releasing her hand. “First grade.”

G’s eyes widen. “Wow. Could never be me, but good for you, babe.”

I laugh. “Not a fan of children?”

“I love children. I just prefer the kind I can hand back when they start crying.”

“Reasonable.”

“So why The Breakwater?” she asks. “Teaching all week and working at the bar sounds like a lot.”

“You can never have enough money,” I explain with a shrug. “Plus, I don’t do well with sitting still.”

G points at me with her coffee. “We are going to get along disgustingly well.”

“You think?”

“I know these things.”

The rest of the conversation comes easily. Easier than it should, considering we barely know each other.

G tells me which take-out place to avoid and warns me that Bill pretends to hate karaoke nights even though he sings the same Fleetwood Mac song every time. I tell her about the rat I once found inside my kitchen cupboard in New York, and she insists it must be a sign that I was destined to help her fight the raccoons of Hartwell.

It feels sort of like I’ve known her much longer than two days.