Just one third to go
Chapter seven
Evan
My bedroom ceiling needs to be repainted.
I know this because I’ve been staring at it for ten minutes.
For a few more seconds, I stay still, my eyes open in the dim of the morning, listening to the quiet weight of the house around me.
The heater clicks once in the hallway, and the pipes shift behind the bathroom wall.
Gus shifts on his bed in the hallway and lets out a low huff.
I turn my head toward the clock on the nightstand.
6:01.
Alarm’s set for six-thirty, but there’s no way I’m getting back to sleep. Instead, I exhale and push the covers back.
This is nothing. I wake early all the time. Years of shifts that start before sunrise will do that to you, and you don’t really unlearn it.
The floor is cool under my feet as I step into the hallway, and I move through the kitchen in the half-light, setting water to boil and opening the cabinet for the coffee without needing to look.
My routine is automatic, to the point I don’t think about it anymore. I measure the grounds, pour the water, leave the press to steep.
When it’s ready, I pour the water in, watching the coffee bloom and darken, steam fogging the space in front of me.
Then, I stand there with my hands braced against the counter, listening to it drip.
There’s no reason to be this wired. I’m simply awake because I’m used to being awake.
Not because she’s coming over.
I push the thought away and step outside onto the small porch, easing the door closed behind me so it doesn’t wake Elle.
Maplewood is still buried in winter, but this morning has a damp edge to it—woodsmoke lingering from someone’s fireplace, thin mist hanging over the road, the snowbanks along the curb softened by a slow overnight thaw.
The sky is still undecided, not fully dark but not bright enough to call morning yet.
I rest my forearms on the porch railing and let the cold bite through the thin cotton of my T-shirt while last night rolls through my head. Probably should’ve grabbed a hoodie, but the cold feels useful and sharp enough to cut through the messy thoughts in my head.
Thoughts like Tucker leaning against the bar, his hand flat on the wood and stretching toward her.
The easy confidence in his smile, and the way Penny laughed.
That real, musical sound with her head tipped back just enough for me to notice the line of her throat.
and her blue-tipped hair catching the dim light.
The memory lingers, but I force myself to think of other things. Fletch’s voice cutting across the room. Elle running straight for her like she’d known her longer than a day.
I shift my weight and exhale through my nose.
It doesn’t mean anything.
A guy flirts, and a woman smiles. That’s normal. She’s new, and he’s single. That’s how small towns work.
The image of him offering to show her the lake lingers anyway, and I drag a hand through my hair, then head back inside.
By the time I push the door closed behind me, I hear a soft thump down the hallway. A drawer sliding open. Then another.
Here we go.
Elle appears in the kitchen doorway a minute later, fully dressed in leggings and a sweater with a penguin on the front, with one sock on and the other clutched in her hand.
“Daddy.”
“Morning, bug.”
She squints at the clock on the wall, then back at me. “Is it pancake time?”
“Almost.”
She studies my face for a second. “Is Penny coming?”
I pick up my mug and take a careful sip, keeping my voice level.
“I don’t want you to get your hopes up, okay? Sometimes people can’t make it.”
Elle frowns, thinking that through. “She doesn’t say stuff if she doesn’t mean it.”
“No,” I agree quietly. “She doesn’t.”
“She said she’d probably be around,” Elle continues, pulling her second sock on and hopping once to settle it. “That means yes.”
“It means probably.”
Elle shakes her head, hair slipping over her face. “It means yes.”
She says it with absolute certainty, and with a tinge of desperation that squeezes my heart tight. I look down at my coffee instead of at her, because I know what happens when promises aren’t kept.
But Penny doesn’t promise—she has told Elle exactly what she means with careful honesty in every interaction so far, and for some reason, that feels even more important.
“Go brush your teeth,” I say. “Then you can be in charge of setting the table.”
She beams like that’s the highest honor I could’ve given her and disappears down the hall, singing something under her breath about syrup.
Gus trots in a second later, tail already wagging in anticipation of food. He noses my thigh and lets out a hopeful whine, then looks pointedly at the cabinet where his food is kept.
“Not yet,” I tell him.
He huffs and shifts closer anyway as I pull the flour out and start mixing the batter.
Two cups of flour and two tablespoons of sugar. I level the knife across the top of the measuring cup twice, add the baking powder, and a pinch of salt. Then I crack the eggs cleanly into the bowl and pour the milk in a steady stream, whisking until the lumps smooth out.
I’ve made pancakes almost every Sunday since Elle was old enough to hold a fork, so I don’t have to think about it.
Today, I’m thinking about it.
The pan heats on the stove, butter melting into a thin sheen that coats the surface. I pour the first round of batter into even circles, watching the edges turn from shiny to matte.
Behind me, Elle’s footsteps come pounding back down the hall.
“I brushed for the whole song!” she announces, climbing into her chair at the counter and peering over. “Can we put blueberries in them?”
“On top,” I say.
“Inside them is better.”
“On top is easier.”
She considers this for a moment as I flip the first pancake.
I’ve left it too long. The underside is darker than I like, edging toward burnt. I slide it onto the plate anyway and start the next batch. Elle leans over to inspect it.
“That one’s brown.”
“They’re supposed to be brown.”
She accepts that, but keeps watching as I pour the next round, adjusting the heat down a notch.
“You’re making them careful today,” she says.
“I always make them careful, bug.”
She tilts her head. “You’re making them extra careful.”
I don’t answer that.
Gus noses my calf, and I shift automatically so I don’t step on him. The kitchen smells like butter and coffee and something just slightly too overcooked. Definitely not burnt.
I glance toward the living room without meaning to. The straightened cushions and the blankets folded over the arm of the couch. Elle’s penguin books are stacked neatly on the coffee table.
Did I vacuum yesterday? I think I vacuumed yesterday. I definitely thought about vacuuming yesterday, at least.
Turning back to the stove, I flip the second batch at exactly the right moment.
Golden.
Elle nods approvingly. “That’s better.”
“I know how to cook,” I mutter.
She grins and reaches for a blueberry from the bowl, popping it into her mouth as she keeps watching. I stack the second round of pancakes carefully as steam rises between them and wipe a smear of batter off the counter with the side of my hand.
It’s just breakfast. Just fucking pancakes.
So I don’t know why I keep checking the clock.
7:12.
Plenty of time. I turn back to what I’m doing and focus, because I’ll be damned if I let another pancake burn. I’m flipping the last ones onto the stack when my phone buzzes again.
Elle’s eyes light up, mouth full of blueberries. “Is that her?”
“It’s a text,” I say, reaching for it.
Penny’s name lights up the screen, and I see a photo first. It’s the lake in early morning light, silver and flat and stupidly icy. At the bottom of the shot, there’s a duck mid-stride, wings fanned out slightly like he’s getting ready to chase her.
Penny: Ten minutes away! I stopped to admire this extremely confident and mildly terrifying duck. I prefer penguins. Show Elle!
I feel an easy warmth shift in my chest from the simple care in her words. I reread it twice, noticing too late that Elle is practically climbing onto the counter to see.
“Is she coming?”
“Ten minutes away.” I angle the phone toward her. “And she sent a picture.”
Elle gasps. “That’s the duck that steals fries!”
“It’s not the same duck, bug.”
“It is. That’s Mr. Waddles.”
“He has a name?”
“He does,” she insists. “And he stole my fries when I was there with Miss Mabel!”
“Then he’s a criminal.”
“That’s not what criminal means,” she says seriously, and I make a mental note that we’ll need to go over that later.
I type back before I think about it too much.
Me: See you soon. Watch out for duck theft.
Penny: I’ll keep my maple syrup guarded.
I set the phone down and turn back to the stove, moving the frypan to the sink to cool and wiping my hands on a towel.
“She’s actually coming,” Elle whispers to herself.
“She said she would,” I reply.
I move on autopilot to get the plates out, the syrup uncapped, and the glasses lined up. I wipe the counter again, even though it doesn’t need it.
“Daddy,” Elle says carefully, watching me. “Are you nervous?”
“No.”
She narrows her eyes. “You’re doing your serious face.”
“I always do my serious face.”
She slides off the stool and runs for the living room instead of arguing, probably to ensure she has all her trinkets ready and lined up to show Penny. Gus follows her halfway, then circles back to me, tail thudding against the cabinet.
The knock comes eight minutes later, and Gus explodes into sound. Elle squeals and bolts for the door at the same time.
“Walk,” I warn, stepping in front of her and catching the handle before she can yank it open.
Penny stands there with one hand tucked into her coat pocket. Her soft pink sweater brings out the flush in her cheeks and the rose in her lips, and her hair’s slightly tousled from the walk.
She’s carrying a small paper bag in her other hand and looks, for a brief second, like she’s checking she’s still welcome. Then her eyes dart down to Elle at my hip, and she smiles.
“Hi.”
My shoulders drop before I can stop them. “Morning.”