We wander past the house and away from the beach toward the pole barn where we keep the snowmobiles and store the boat and lake equipment during the winter. Easton knows this property as well as I do, having spent a good chunk of his teenage summers and weekends hanging out here.

“Thank you for taking me through that,” I say after we’ve walked for a while. “It was helpful.”

“I can’t take the credit. When I was trying to decide whether or not to retire, my therapist did that exercise with me. I found it . . . insightful.”

“And your vision brought you back here?”

“Yeah.” He looks down at me. “I guess we have that in common. I think it was the right decision, too. It’s such a relief to see Abi happy, but I owe that to your family. You all welcomed us and made us feel . . .”

I smile. “Welcome?”

He smacks my ass lightly. “Pest. I was going to say not alone.”

“Well, I think that’s what friends do.” I take his hand and intertwine our fingers. “I like being your friend, Easton.” And maybe, if I stay, we could work on being something more.

Something flashes in his eyes, but he looks away before I can place the emotion. “About that . . .”

We keep walking, but I squeeze his hand. “What?”

He lifts our hands and studies them. Mine is so small in his, but to me, it’s the perfect fit. He shakes his head. “Nothing.”

I glance at the pole barn over my shoulder and smile. “Come on.” I tug him toward the barn, and he follows.

I enter the security code on the door and push inside. It’s darker in here, the only light from the high windows on the garage doors, but there’s enough to see and it’s still nice and cool, unlike in the summer, when the metal walls turn it into an oven.

I shut the door and smile up at him. “When I was a teenager, you and I were alone in here once. You were in a pair of swim trunks, shirtless, and I was looking for the big float for the lake.”

“I remember. You were wearing a black swimsuit and . . .” He bites a knuckle dramatically, and I laugh. “Carter was pissed at me that day.”

I hoist myself up on the counter in the workshop at the back of the barn. “I got sick of looking and sat here,” I say. “I was so self-conscious about my body, but I thought . . .” I bite my bottom lip. Even more than a dozen years later and with a world more self-confidence, it’s hard to make myself say the words. “I thought you were looking at me.”

He prowls forward. Slowly. Too slowly. “I was.”