“Hi, Claire.”

I turn sharply and the bags swing with me, one hitting the wall with a soft thump. Tate.

He’s holding out a note card, but I’m focused on the angle of his jaw, the green of his eyes, and then I’m thinking about the last time I saw him, and my eyes fly open because—

“I know all about the baby. You t . . . t-old me.”

I move back into my apartment, set the bags on the counter, and take the card he holds out. I live in Whittier and I work as the harbormaster and I’m not married anymore. I know about the baby and I understand. I love you, Claire.

A blush spreads across my cheeks, and I focus on my hands. We said it to each other as kids, but now, as adults, it feels different to me, important in a way I don’t think he feels.

“I thought you could add it to the one you k . . . k-eep in your pocket about Vance.” His voice is calm, but I think he’s nervous too.

There is a card in my pocket. I pull it out; one hand goes to my chest, and I have to blink hard, stare at the card until the words blur together. Then I grab a pen and make a hash mark. Yes, I know this; I’m sure I know this.

I look again at the card from Tate, feel a twinge at the kindness in his gesture. “Do you want to come in?” I ask, suddenly shy, touching my hair and wondering if I bothered to make it look nice today or, God forbid, did I even shower? I hope for the best, not daring to sniff my armpits to find out.

I put the few groceries I have away, acutely aware of Tate sitting on a stool at the counter, watching me. Do I look old to him? The same? Different? Does he pity me? My mind is full of questions, most of which I can answer with a disheartened yes. I don’t want to turn around, until a sardonic voice inside reminds me that he’s not here to make mad, passionate love to me. He’s here because he’ll always be my friend, and he more than likely feels sorry for me. I stand tall and turn to face him, but his full lips part into a wide smile that only highlights his cheekbones and eyes and, oh, that hair that I want to run my fingers through—

“Claire?”

Scattered thoughts in my mind that make me cross and uncross my arms, embarrassed and unsure what to do with myself.

“I have an idea,” he says. On the counter in front of him is a small rectangular device.

“What’s that?” I ask, coming closer, my interest piqued.