He holds up his empty hands. “I didn’t bring anything. I thought about grabbing a bottle of wine, but I wasn’t sure you drank, and even if you did, I was worried it might look a bit presumptuous showing up with an entire bottle of wine, as though I was planning on outstaying my welcome. I’m sorry.”

The pleading look of apology in his eyes makes me laugh. I put a hand on his arm. “It’s fine—my god, Ezra—totally fine. No need to overthink.” He puts his hand over my mine, and it’s warm and rough and sends a jolt of feeling into the rest of my body. I slide my hand out from under his and take a step back, afraid of what he’s stirring in me.

“Okay then,” he says, not seeming to notice my withdrawal. “No more overthinking, I promise.”

Walking up the path to the cottage, Ezra mentions May’s car accident, says how sorry he is that she passed away, how he remembers how close we were and how hard it must have been for me to lose her.

His words cause explosions of red light behind my eyes. I haven’t had to deal with other people’s condolences and empty-sounding words for a while, and it blindsides me. I thank him and quicken my pace. I don’t ask how he heard about it but quickly change the subject before the grief catches up with me and I have to tell him to leave so I can be alone with it.

“White or red?” I ask, once we’re inside.

“Do you have any beer?”

“Aw, nope. Sorry. I only have limited supplies.”

“Which include both red and white wine?” he asks, with a playful smile.

I pretend to be abashed. “It’s called prioritizing.” He laughs that laugh that carries, and there’s the hint of what we used to be like together.

“I’ll have white, please,” he says, pulling out a chair to sit at the table.

I go to the cupboard to get down another glass and pour us both some wine. When I turn, I catch him watching me. Not in that creepy, objectifying, you-can-practically-see-into-their-dirty-mind kind of way; more of a study, as though he’s trying to teach himself this new adult version of me.

He looks away as soon as I catch his eye and notices the scrapbook still sitting on the table. “What’s this?” he asks.

Placing a glass of wine in front of him, I sit down at the table. “I actually wanted to talk to you about some things, Ezra. Some things I read in that scrapbook.”

MAY