25. Ellie
Twenty Five
Ellie
Dinner at Rosa’s was almost normal.
Almost normal meant Annie kept the bad hat on until Rosa made her remove it at the table, two people photographed the back of her head while pretending to admire the dessert case, and Captain Pancake spent the entire meal dismantling the stuffed lobster beneath Hank’s chair.
By the time Rosa brought the rice, the lobster had lost its sailor hat, both claws, and most of its internal structure.
“He likes it,” Hank said.
“He has reduced it to evidence,” I replied.
“That is how he shows commitment.”
Captain Pancake tore loose another strip of white stuffing.
Annie looked beneath the table.
“I appreciate his enthusiasm.”
“He has expensive taste,” Hank said.
“He never learned what it cost.”
“That has never stopped anyone.”
Rosa placed the bowl directly in front of Annie.
“You eat.”
“I was planning to.”
“No granola.”
“I haven’t had granola in days.”
“You look like you remember it.”
Annie turned toward me.
“Have they always monitored food this aggressively?”
“Yes.”
“Why did you invite me back?”
“I had forgotten.”
Rosa pointed her serving spoon in my direction.
“You remember everything.”
The café was quieter than usual, though not empty. A family ate near the windows, and three men from the marina occupied their usual places at the counter. Everyone had recognized Annie. Most had also managed to continue eating, which counted as restraint by island standards.
A teenage girl approached while we waited for pie.
She held her phone in both hands and looked close to losing the ability to speak.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Could I get a picture?”
Annie glanced at me, then at Rosa.
“This is your restaurant.”
Rosa folded her arms.
“One photograph. No flash. Then you finish dessert.”
The girl nodded quickly.
Annie stood and moved away from the table so nobody else appeared in the background. She asked the girl’s name, posed for the photograph, and signed the phone case because there was no paper nearby.
When the girl returned to her family, Annie sat down again.
“You didn’t need my permission,” I said.
“I asked Rosa.”
“You looked at me first.”
“I wanted to know whether you were comfortable.”
“I was.”
“Good.”
She reached for her water.
“I don’t need you to check every time someone recognizes you.”
“I’m aware.”
“Are you?”
“I’m trying to understand the difference between being considerate and operating under a municipal permit.”
“That may take practice.”
“I have two days.”
“Do not attempt mastery.”
Rosa arrived with pie and ended the discussion.
Annie took one bite and closed her eyes.
“I thought about this on several flights.”
“That is proper,” Rosa said.
“Once during an awards ceremony.”
“More proper.”
“Someone was receiving an award for documentary filmmaking.”
“Pie remains important.”
Annie nodded solemnly.
“I feel understood.”
The ease of the evening unsettled me more than the awkwardness had.
Annie had returned as Savannah Brooks, openly and without an escape plan if somebody recognized her. She was eating pie with Hank and Rosa while Captain Pancake committed violence beneath the table.
Nobody was pretending she was ordinary.
Nobody was treating her like she had arrived from another planet either.
Annie caught me looking.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
“That was a thoughtful nothing.”
“I was wondering whether pie has affected your judgment.”
“It has improved several areas.”
“Do not make commitments under pastry conditions.”
“I’ll wait until breakfast.”
After dinner, we walked back to my house.
Annie carried the hat by its brim, letting it swing beside her leg. The evening had cooled enough that the road no longer felt like an oven, and the breeze carried the smell of salt and someone grilling fish several houses away.
Her fingers brushed mine.
The first time might have been accidental.
The second was not.
I let our hands fit together.
Annie did not comment on it. Had she said anything about symbolic progress or expanded communication privileges, I would have pushed her into the nearest hedge.
We walked for a while before she spoke.
“That was nice.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I expected an interrogation.”
“Hank showed unusual discipline.”
“He asked whether I intended to establish permanent residency.”
“He could have requested your tax records.”
“That is true.”
Annie moved our joined hands slightly between us, a small swing that felt younger than either of us.
“Rosa didn’t ask anything.”
“Rosa believes questions are unnecessary when she already knows the answers.”
“Does she?”
“She has never allowed uncertainty to reduce her confidence.”
At the house, Annie stopped at the foot of the porch.
“You left the light on.”
“The steps are uneven.”
“It was daylight when we went to dinner.”
“They remain uneven throughout the day.”
Her smile was gentle enough to make me regret providing a defense.
Inside, the house seemed smaller with Annie in it, though not crowded. Her presence made me aware of every room and every choice I had made before she arrived.
She placed the hat on the kitchen counter.
“I brought something.”
“If it is another stuffed animal, Captain Pancake needs time to recover.”
“It’s for Lexi.”
Annie took a cream envelope from her bag. Lexi’s name was written across the front in careful block letters, surrounded by three small fish that appeared to have been drawn during turbulence.
“You wrote back.”
“I finally used the stationery.”
“The mystery is over.”
“It was a brief and unsuccessful era.”
She handed me the envelope.
I turned it over without opening it.
“What did you write?”
“That being frightened doesn’t mean she can’t do something. I also told her fear can contain useful information, so she should continue following her instructor’s directions.”
“That is unexpectedly responsible.”
“I have range.”
“Did you apologize for almost knocking off my mask?”
“I described the incident as an enthusiastic equipment interaction.”
“That is not an apology.”
“There is an apology in the second paragraph.”
I placed the letter beside my keys.
“I’ll give it to her mother.”
“Thank you.”
Annie hesitated.
“You can read it first.”
“Why?”
“To make sure it’s appropriate.”
“It belongs to Lexi.”
“Yes.”
“I trust you to write one letter to a nine-year-old without creating an international incident.”
Her expression softened.
“That feels significant.”
“Do not make it ceremonial.”
“I had already ordered a plaque.”
I stepped closer and kissed her.
The kiss was brief, mostly because I had not planned it and Annie’s surprise made me want to see her face.
“That did not involve a formal request,” she said.
“I’m testing a less regulated system.”
“I strongly support innovation.”
I kissed her again.
This time, she put both hands around my waist and drew me against her. The kitchen, the flight, and every conversation about trust faded beneath the uncomplicated fact that I wanted her.
Then the refrigerator made a grinding sound.
Annie pulled back.
“Is that normal?”
“It has been doing it for months.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It remains operational.”
“You teach people to inspect life-support equipment.”
“A refrigerator is not life-support equipment.”
“Rosa may disagree.”
I laughed, but the moment had shifted. Not disappeared, only become aware of itself again.
Annie’s hands remained at my waist.
“I should probably get ready for bed,” she said.
It was barely nine-thirty.
I almost pointed that out.
Instead, I nodded.
“I’ll see you in the morning.”
She collected her bag and walked down the hall.
The spare-room door stayed open while she placed a few things into the dresser. I stood in the kitchen listening to drawers open and close.
I had invited her back because I wanted to discover what happened when there was no secret between us.
So far, I had kissed her twice, been interrupted by an appliance, and sent her to bed before ten.
Romance remained an area of developing expertise.
I washed the glasses, checked the refrigerator to confirm it had not died, and locked the front door. Then I brushed my teeth for far too long while examining my face in the mirror.
I was not confused about wanting Annie.
I was confused about whether wanting her made everything else less important or more dangerous.
Neither option was especially useful.
When I left the bathroom, the spare-room door was partly closed.
I walked past it.
Reached my bedroom.
Stopped.
Then turned around.
A light was still on inside the spare room.
I knocked against the edge of the open door.
Annie was sitting on the bed in shorts and a T-shirt, reading something on her phone. She put it aside immediately.
“Is everything okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did the refrigerator surrender?”
“No.”
“Captain Pancake emergency?”
“He does not live here.”
“He has demonstrated mobility.”
I leaned against the doorframe.
“There are still a lot of things I’m not sure about.”
Annie waited.
She did not tell me uncertainty was understandable or offer a promise designed to make it disappear. She moved the phone onto the nightstand and gave me time to continue.
“I’m sure I don’t want you sleeping in here tonight.”
Her face changed before she managed to control it.
“That is a very specific area of confidence.”
“I prefer manageable decisions.”
“Should I bring the pillow?”
“No.”
“Leave it here in case the room feels abandoned?”
“Annie.”
She stood.
“I’m coming.”
She followed me down the hall without touching me. When we reached my bedroom, the distance between us became awkward again.
Annie looked at the bed.
“This feels like another moment where a movie would provide instructions.”
“Movies remove clothing and skip practical conversations.”
“They also employ flattering lighting.”
“I turned on the lamp.”
“It is excellent.”
“You are stalling.”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
She rubbed her thumb across her palm.
“Because I want this, and I don’t want wanting it to make you feel like you agreed to anything beyond tonight.”
The sentence was clumsy enough to be honest.
“I’m not agreeing to forever,” I said.
“Okay.”
“I’m agreeing to tonight.”
“Okay.”
“And tomorrow morning.”
Her mouth curved.
“That is a meaningful extension.”