42. Buzz
BUZZ
NOW
By the time Lucy got to the lake house, I had already made a fire in August like a man with absolutely no respect for the calendar.
In my defense, the sky had gone mean after dinnertime.
Rain hit the windows in heavy sheets, not quite sideways but close enough that the lake had disappeared behind it.
The trees along the shore bent and shuddered every time thunder rolled over the water, and the whole house had gone gold and shadowy in the kind of way that made a person believe summer could still have corners.
Also, Lucy liked the fire.
The house had plenty of heat. It had blankets.
It had electricity, despite the occasional flicker that made the lamps blink like they were considering giving up.
But Lucy liked the fire, so I had stacked the wood, lit it, and stood there like a complete idiot watching flames catch while pretending I had not been counting minutes since her last text.
Lucy: Leaving the arena now. Dottie is offended by the rain.
Lucy: Dottie would like you to know this is your fault somehow.
Dottie’s bowls were already lined up in the mudroom.
Her leash hung on the hook beside my keys, which was ridiculous since I did not own a dog and had no real claim to her.
Except, Dottie had moved into my life with the quiet entitlement of an old woman who had opinions about furniture.
There was a towel by the door with paw prints on it, a basket of toys in the corner of the living room, and a dog bed she mostly ignored because she preferred any surface that was either inconvenient or still warm from a human body.
Lucy’s things were quieter. A paperback facedown on the side table with a receipt tucked in as a bookmark.
A green glasses case beside the lamp. Her sketch pad on the kitchen counter, pencil balanced across the top like she had set it down for one second and then been dragged away by the rest of her life.
A folded pair of sleep shorts and a soft tank top sat in the guest room dresser, although we both knew the guest room was now mostly where her clean laundry went when neither one of us was ready to talk about why she had a drawer.
I was already at the door when Lucy pulled up.
She looked at me through the rain. Her curls were tied up in a messy knot, but several pieces had escaped around her face.
Her emerald glasses were dotted with rain almost as soon as she stepped out of the truck.
She was still in her work clothes, tailored pants and a blouse mostly hidden beneath a light jacket, and she had a tote bag over one shoulder, an overnight bag in one hand, and Dottie’s leash wrapped around her wrist.
She looked like every version of the future I had ever been too scared to imagine.
I jogged down the porch steps.
“You’re going to get soaked,” she called.
“Yeah, Shortcake. That seems to be the situation.”
Her mouth twitched.
I took the overnight bag from her first. Then the tote. Then Dottie’s leash, although Dottie immediately decided I was too slow and hauled herself toward the porch like she owned the place, ears flopping, paws splashing through every puddle she could reach.
“Dottie,” Lucy said, scandalized. “There was a path.”
“She’s an artist,” I said. “The mud is her medium.”
“She is a menace.”
“She’s our menace,” I teased and took Lucy’s hand, tugging her up the steps.
Inside, the house swallowed us in warmth. The fire popped in the living room. Rain hammered the roof. Dottie shook herself before either of us could stop her, spraying water across the mudroom wall, my jeans, Lucy’s shoes, and probably several structural elements of the house.
Lucy closed her eyes.
I looked down at the dog. “You are not sorry.”
Dottie sneezed.
“Not even a little,” Lucy chuckled.
I crouched with the towel and started drying Dottie’s paws because somehow that had become my life. Professional athlete. Grown man. Owner of one extremely expensive couch. Servant to a damp dog with no shame.
The rain made the whole room smell like wet wood and lake water. Lucy’s overnight bag sat beside the door. Her tote had tipped against the bench, and I could see the corner of a folder sticking out beside one of Dottie’s toys.
I got Dottie’s last paw mostly clean. She immediately walked around me and flopped onto the rug with the deep sigh of someone who had survived a historical tragedy.
Lucy peeled off her jacket. Her blouse clung a little at the shoulders from the rain, and I made myself look at her face because I was a gentleman, technically, and because when Lucy looked at me like that, it was very easy to forget the entire concept of restraint.
“You hungry?” I asked.
“Starving.”
“I was going to make dinner.”
I stood, hung the towel over the hook, and reached for her. She came without hesitation. Her hands slid around my waist, and she tipped her face up. I pushed her glasses carefully onto the top of her head before I kissed her because I had learned that lesson the hard way. Once. Maybe twice.
“Hi,” I said against her mouth.
“Hi.”
“You’re wet.”
“Romantic.” She rolled her eyes.
“I meant from the rain.”
“You are truly gifted with words.”
“I’m better with pasta.”
“That remains to be seen.”
I kissed her again because she was smiling, because she was here, because I could. Because for once in my life, wanting her did not feel like standing outside a locked door.
It felt like coming home with the key already in my hand.
We made dinner together.
Made was generous. I boiled water. Lucy opened cabinets and judged the organizational system I had not realized I possessed until she started asking why the bowls were in three different places.
“Because they fit there,” I said.
“That is not a system.”
“It is if you understand the logic.”
“The logic is chaos.”
“You love my chaos.”
Lucy glanced at me over her shoulder while she pulled a pan from the lower cabinet. “I tolerate your chaos because you have redeeming qualities.”
“Name three.”
Her lips curved. “You’re tall. You dry Dottie’s paws. And you make fires in August because you know me too well.”
The firelight reached the kitchen from the living room, turning the edges of her hair copper. Rain blurred the windows behind her. Somewhere nearby, Dottie had found the squeaky toy shaped like a moose and was committing violence against it in the next room.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.
“Sure.”
“It’s cold.”
“It is seventy-one degrees.”
“Wind chill.”
“We are inside.”
“Lake chill.”
She came close enough to bump my hip with hers. “Thank you for the fire, Ty.”
“You’re welcome.”
The last few weeks had been full of quiet seconds that opened underneath us. Moments when something ordinary became so heavy with meaning that I had to breathe through it.
Lucy tossing one of Dottie’s toys into the living room while she answered emails from my couch.
Lucy putting her cold feet under my thigh because she claimed that was the price of dating a man who kept his house like a meat locker.
Lucy standing on the dock at sunset, hair loose, one hand shading her eyes, talking about nothing while I thought about everything.
Lucy at the hospital, whispering that Lena’s hands were so tiny, then pressing her face into my chest when Bea cried.
Lucy’s sketch pad on my counter.
I wanted the rest. The thought had been living in me for days, maybe longer. Growing roots. Getting loud.
Move in with me. I had almost said it three different times already.
Tonight, though, the words sat behind my teeth with a steadiness that did not feel like panic.
“Pasta,” Lucy said softly.
I blinked. “What?”
She laughed under her breath and took the spoon from me. “Move, professional athlete. You’re a liability.”
Dinner tasted better than it deserved to. Pasta, jarred sauce I had tried to improve with garlic and whatever herbs were still alive in the fridge, bread I absolutely almost burned, and a salad Lucy made because she said adults needed something green on the table.
“We are adults,” I said, looking at the salad with suspicion.
“Technically.”
“I have a mortgage.”
“That does not prove maturity.”
“I kept a basil plant alive for eleven days.” I shrugged flippantly. “It was weak, but I loved it.”
“Rest in peace, Basil Burns.” Lucy laughed so hard she had to put her fork down.
After dinner, I was loading plates into the dishwasher when Lucy walked back out of the hallway in sleep shorts and a soft gray long-sleeved shirt that looked familiar because it was mine.
Her hair was down now, damp from the rain and curling around her shoulders.
Her glasses were back on her face. She had washed off the workday, all the arena polish gone, leaving just Lucy.
Bare feet. Tired smile. One hand pushing her hair away from her cheek.
I stared.
She stopped beside the island. “Subtle.”
“I was not trying to be.”
“That shirt was in my bag.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting.”
“I stole it weeks ago.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t say anything.”
“I liked where it ended up.”
Her cheeks colored, but she rolled her eyes like that would save her. “You are getting very smooth in your old age.”
“I’m twenty-six.”
“Ancient.”
“Cruel.”
She crossed the kitchen and slid her arms around my neck.
I put my hands on her waist, palms settling over soft cotton and the familiar shape of her.
She rose onto her toes and kissed me, slow at first, then smiling when Dottie’s squeaky toy made a dramatic sound from the living room. “We have an audience,” Lucy murmured.
“Dottie has seen worse.”
“She has absolutely not.”
“She watched Alois cry over a baby hat three days ago.”
Lucy tipped her head back and laughed, eyes closing.
I grinned because I had earned that one.