“No, you’re right,” he says, sounding nothing but apologetic. “I should have realized I’d do more harm than good, sneaking in here. I really am sorry. My intentions were good, though, right?”

I give his arm a swat and end up releasing drops of wet from his raincoat. “Yes, your intentions were good. Aren’t they always?”

He cocks his head to the side. “I wouldn’t say always. For instance. I intend to convince you to come outside with me right now and smoke a joint. So that’s not the most honorable temptation to put in front of you.”

“What time is it?” I ask, absent-mindedly reaching for my phone, then remembering it’s dead.

“One thirty,” he answers. “It’s pretty amazing out there,” he coaxes. “The calm after the storm. You wouldn’t want to miss it.”

“Yeah, sure, why not?” How easily corrupted I am.

Ezra shines the flashlight on his phone while I feel around for a sweat shirt to throw on and put the lamp back on the bedside table. Downstairs we light the candles on the mantel and find some to bring outside with us.

The storm has retreated. The remainder of the clouds have broken apart to reveal patches of clear sky and glimpses of the moon as they roll through the darkness. Thin tree branches litter the lawn in front of the cottage, and puddles of water nestle in the grass. The lake is eerily still, recovered from the wind and rain that churned it up for hours. A thin veil of fog rises from its surface.

“It certainly is beautiful out,” I whisper, as though my voice might disturb it all. The spark of Ezra’s lighter is his only response. He inhales, releasing a sweet, earthy scent into the air.

He holds it out to me. “I love summer storms. Especially right after.”

I take the joint from him, and we both stand in silence for a few seconds, appreciating the quiet stillness.

“Why do you dislike Leslie Swann so much?” The question comes out of nowhere, and Ezra looks surprised by it.

“I never said I didn’t like her,” he’s quick to answer, his voice laced with defensiveness.

“No, you didn’t say that, but I could tell.”

He sighs, pulls the joint from between my fingers, and takes a long inhale. “I feel like if I tell you why I don’t like her, it will cause problems and make things weird.”

“Well, now you have to tell me.”

“Can I go get a beer first?” I nod, and he flees into the cottage.

As I wait for him to return, my mind runs through every kind of scenario involving Leslie Swann. Did he work for her, get a bad tarot card reading, sleep with her? The last consideration makes me shudder.