Her nod draws my eye, but she doesn’t say anything for a moment.

“There, but not present,” she decides. “That’s a ginormous amount of pressure to put on yourself.”

I turn onto Seagrove’s Main Street, hands tightening on the steering wheel. “I fucked up my marriage. Nearly lost Dad. I refuse to let anything else slip through my fingers.”

“So, you catch everyone. Who catches you?”

I don’t have an answer.

“No wonder you’re exhausted.”

“I’m okay. I have nothing to complain about.” My eyes cut to her, sitting sideways in the passenger seat. “You do, though. Want to vent? About the house?”

She groans. “I’ve nothing to complain about, either. What’s the point?”

“Might feel good to tap into some rage, scream into the void, and exercise creative cursing.”

She laughs. “How very pirate-like.”

“Don’t knock it until you try it. You can’t be everybody’s sweetheart all the time. That would be exhausting.”

“Eh, I’m an endless fountain of energy… usually. You’ll see.”

“Can’t wait,” I say. “What’re you doing tomorrow? Working?”

“No, but crafting my resignation letter is on my list.”

“What? No dramatic take-this-job-and-shove-it thing?” I whine. “Come on, Marina. Pirates don’t craft resignation letters.”

“I’ll make it snarky,” she whines, making her cuter than usual.

“Snark is good. I have some time tomorrow. How about I help you with errands or whatever you need? The mall, grocery shopping, anything.”

“Oh, Grady, you want to paint the town red with errands?” she teases as I turn onto her road. “Do you get a lot of dates like this?”

“Um, date?” I glance at her coy expression, surprised by the word. She’s just teasing, Grady. “Not a date. Just friends, spending a Sunday together.”

“Something tells me you wouldn’t normally do errands on a Sunday.”

“No, I’d usually fish on my dock with my dogs, and I’ll still do that… after errands,” I say, pulling up to her house.

She considers my offer, nibbling her bottom lip again. “Grady, want to know what makes me sadder than finding out about the house?”

“What?”

The porch light gleams in her eyes as she turns to me. “Becoming another chore for you.”

“That’s not what I meant,” I quickly defend. “I wouldn’t offer if I didn’t want to.”

“Whatever this is between us, I like it. I like you,” she says, “but we shouldn’t spend time together if I’m another item on your to-do list.”

I shake my head, pissed for sounding that way and even angrier with myself that there’s truth in it. I have turned her into another chore, though she means more than that. Uncomfortably more. I grip the steering wheel, twisting it in my hands. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”