Page 52 of Dead Men Tell No Shells

She laughed. “I'll let you know if we need to change our route.”

“Somewhere without loose gravel, running water, or buried treasure, I hope.”

“I make no promises. Now, how are you?”

The question caught me off guard. It shouldn't have. Mom always asked, eventually, once she'd finished telling me what Dad had done to the local peace and quiet. Still, the shift from campground comedy to a genuine question about me left me feeling as if I'd been caught without an answer ready.

“I'm fine.”

“Really? Because you sound different.”

I glanced at my laptop. The document was still open, and the scene I'd been working on waited where I'd left it. I'd made some progress today, at least, even if my fictional woman was taking an unreasonable amount of time to get through a café door. But my thoughts kept circling back to the same person, no matter how hard I tried to concentrate on anything else.

Josiah.

His confession still sat somewhere beneath my ribs, pressing against old hurts I'd thought I understood. He'd never stopped loving me. He wanted a future with me, if I could ever find a way to forgive him for leaving as he had. The trouble was that knowing he still loved me didn't erase what his leaving had done to me, or make it easy to trust that he wouldn't disappear again when things became difficult.

And this morning, I'd sat across from him at Dixie’s, sharing breakfast and talking as though we might someday become the kind of people who could have an ordinary conversation without every word carrying sixteen years of history. I'd gone there expecting awkwardness, perhaps even another painful reminder of what we'd lost. Instead, I'd found myself listening to him, answering his questions, and occasionally forgetting that I'd spent years telling myself he belonged in my past.

I wasn't ready to decide what that meant. I wasn't even sure I wanted to examine it yet.

“Max?” Mom prompted.

“Sorry. I was thinking.”

“About something pleasant?”

“That depends on your definition of pleasant.”

“Oh, dear. Is this a writing problem?”

“No, the writing problem is that I've been staring at the same paragraph for half an hour.”

“Then perhaps you need a break.”

“I've had several breaks.”

“Perhaps you need to get out of the house.”

“I went out this morning.”

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Mom went quiet. I knew that silence. It was the silence of a woman who'd just discovered a loose thread and was considering whether to pull it, even if she had to unravel an entire sweater to find out what was attached to it.

“You went out this morning?”

“Yes.”

“Where did you go?”

“To the diner.”

“Dixie's?”

“Where else would I go for breakfast?”

“Quite. And who did you go with?”