Homemade cookies began the assault on table space, followed by muffins and banana bread in quantities that suggested Mom had expected a small army.

“Guess she baked last night,” I muttered before setting his shoes on the floor.

His eyes dropped to the boots before meeting mine.

Tension strung between us so thick, I could have hung my laundry on it. I hated how he only spoke when he’d finally driven me bonkers from wondering what he was thinking. Hated how he’d always known exactly how to get under my skin. Hated that he made me wonder what was going on in his head when I so often blurted out whatever was in mine.

“So you’re staying up here?” I asked, breaking the stare to take in the familiar lines of the kitchen. It was dusty in places, especially in the cracks of the hand-laid backsplash that depicted the mountains around us in carefully chosen pieces of granite.

“Seems like it. Tell your mom thank you for me.”

I ignored the gruff answer and let my palm trail over the stonework. “I’ve always loved this piece.”

“You should, since you did it.”

My gaze flew to his. He’d remembered that? He’d barely been around that last summer.

“I just helped.” I shrugged.

“Whatever you say.”

“Thank you. For yesterday. You saved my life.” I paused between each sentence, hoping he’d reply. “Rumor is that you’re here to stay.”

“Since when do you listen to rumors?”

“Are they true?” If he was going to ignore my question, then I was ignoring his.

“Yeah, I’m sticking around.” He folded his arms across his chest, drawing my attention to the ink that decorated his skin from his wrists up into his short sleeves.

His left forearm held a scene of pine and aspen trees that sheltered a twisting creek that formed a pond just above his elbow—a pond I recognized. The hot springs that straddled the property line between what had been our parents’ but was now our land.

“What are you thinking about?” he asked, just like he always did. Most people were content to let me live in my head, or they tried to bring me back to the conversation. Cam had always pried my thoughts loose, and I let him, even if he’d usually mocked me for them right after.

Maybe I was a masochist.

“That I always figured you just left and never looked back.” My finger lightly traced the outline of the hot springs, his skin smooth and warm under mine, then paused at the inked rendition of the abandoned structure we used to jump from as kids. “But you took us with you.” Where had he found the drawing? Did he realize it was mine?