Chapter 6 Saturday in Bay Three
POV COLE MERCER
The garage's first youth workshop had twelve teenagers, nine motorcycles, and exactly one functioning torque wrench.
Mara stood at the whiteboard writing SAFETY FIRST in block letters.
Tank added DON'T BE STUPID underneath.
Mara handed him the eraser.
"Educational."
"Memorable."
Cole stayed with the engine group.
Rowan floated between stations, correcting people without making them feel corrected. It was a skill he did not have at eighteen.
At lunch, she dropped onto the bench beside him.
"You keep staring."
Cole looked at his sandwich.
"Sorry."
"Not creepy staring."
"Thank you for the qualification."
"More like you're counting my fingers."
He smiled despite himself.
"I missed a lot."
"Yeah."
No softening.
He liked her for it.
She peeled an orange.
"Mom says you had a dog."
"Rusty."
"She says he hated Deke."
"Rusty had judgment."
"She says you cried when he died."
Cole looked at her.
"Your mother tell you every humiliating thing about me?"
"Only useful ones."
He laughed.
Across the bay, Mara looked over.
Their eyes met.
For one clean second, the years folded.
Then Mara looked away.
After the workshop, Cole stayed to sweep.
Mara stacked folding chairs.
"You were good with them," she said.
"The kids?"
"Don't sound surprised."
"Wasn't."
"Rowan likes you."
Cole's grip tightened on the broom.
"She tolerates me."
"From her, that's a branch with leaves."
He nodded.
"I won't push."
"I know."
The words landed harder than praise.
Mara carried the last chair to storage.
Her knee buckled slightly on the turn.
Cole stepped forward.
She caught the shelf before he reached her.
"I'm fine."
He stopped.
"Okay."
Mara pressed a hand to the joint.
"Old injury."
"I remember."
"You remember everything when it's inconvenient."
"Mostly."
She looked at him.
Then, without warning, smiled.
Small. Tired. Real.
Cole did not move.
He had forgotten a smile could be something a man received rather than earned.
POV MARA QUINN
That evening, Mara sat on her porch with ice on her knee and watched Rowan rebuild a carburetor at the patio table.
"You like him," Mara said.
Rowan kept working.
"He's funny."
"He was always funny."
"That sounded fond."
"It was historical."
"History can be fond."
Mara shifted the ice pack.
"You don't have to protect me."
"I know."
"You also don't have to like him for me."
"I know."
Rowan held up a jet to the porch light.
"Do you like him?"
Mara considered the question.
"I know him."
"That's not the same thing."
"No."
"Do you want him?"
Mara nearly dropped the ice pack.
"You're eighteen, not eighty."
"Biology exists."
"So do boundaries."
Rowan grinned.
Mara looked toward the dark line of Ridge Road.
At twenty-eight, wanting Cole had been easy. Automatic. Built into mornings.
At forty-seven, her body had changed, her trust had changed, even the shape of loneliness had changed. Some nights she did not feel lonely at all. She liked her house, her routines, the entire bed.
Then Cole handed a teenager a wrench and listened instead of taking over.
Then he remembered her knee.
Then he stopped before touching her.
Mara pressed the ice colder against the joint.
"Wanting isn't the problem," she said.
Rowan's hands stilled.
Mara sighed.
"Forget I said that."
"Never."
"Of course."
Rowan returned to the carburetor.
Mara watched the porch light shine on her daughter's hair.
Nineteen years earlier, she had believed losing Cole meant losing the future.
She had been wrong.
She had built one.
That truth did not make his return less dangerous.
It made the stakes clearer.
POV COLE MERCER
Before locking up, Cole found Mara's mug on the desk.
A small crack ran through the handle.
He almost threw it away.
Then he remembered her warning about replacing things.
He washed it, dried it, and set it back where she kept it.
Not every cracked thing wanted fixing.
Some only needed handling carefully.