Emily beams at me. “All valid points to consider.”
Jared straightens. “Wait, they were?”
“But Iamsentimental about the old truck, so you”—she points her spoon at Jared—“need to come up with a different argument or accept that it is now your job to keep my baby running indefinitely.”
He hunches over his stew. “Well, shoot.”
I shove a bite of bread into my mouth to stifle my chuckle.
Soft fur brushes my ankle as Mixie appears from whatever hiding spot she’s claimed for the afternoon. Her green eyes fix on me with feline calculation as she winds between the chair legs.
With a graceful leap, Mixie lands on my thighs, front paws digging into my stomach with insistent pressure. I freeze, spoon halfway to my mouth, as she turns in three tight circles, kneading my legs through my slacks.
“Guess I’m done eating,” I say, trying to balance my bowl away from her questing nose.
Jared snorts. “You’ve been chosen. Resistance is futile.”
After a final circle, Mixie settles into a tight ball on my lap, her purr vibrating through both of us. I resume eating, one hand now occupied with scratching behind her ears.
“This is the first time she’s sat on my lap,” I say in amazement. Cats choose their people, and her approval is a small, private victory.
Emily’s lips curve with contentment as she watches us, and my heart squeezes in response.
“You’ve been here enough times. You’re not a stranger anymore,” she says.
After the first night at the hotel, I started coming for woodworking lessons on Wednesdays, which slowly turned into coming back for dinners that stretched later and later until onenight Emily showed me to the guest room instead of driving me back.
Gradually, my belongings have spread through her space, a toothbrush and a change of clothes taking permanent root.
A month ago, I couldn’t wait for Phase Two to advance far enough for me to move to the island. Now I catch myself hoping for delays so I can stay on the mainland a little longer.
I shift Mixie to reach my laptop, flipping it open again. “Can I run through the presentation points with you both? Sometimes saying it aloud helps me catch the awkward phrasing.”
“Sure.” Emily pushes her empty bowl aside, giving me her full attention.
I navigate to my document, adjusting the screen so they can both see it. “I’m focusing on three areas. Existing policy gaps, proposed amendments, and implementation timeline.”
For the next twenty minutes, I walk them through my presentation, pausing to rework a sentence or clarify a point. Neither interrupts with questions about why this matters to me or whether the work is worth my time. They listen, offering practical suggestions when asked and treating my professional obligations with the same respect they’d give their own.
Jared rises from the table, clearing our empty bowls, and returns with three bottles of beer, the tops already popped off.
“The last section’s about compliance documentation,” I continue, scrolling down the page. “I’ve drafted templates to reduce the paperwork burden while still meeting legal requirements.”
Emily leans closer to read the text. “Smart approach. Leaves them fewer opportunities to say no.”
“That’s the idea.” My fingers tap the keyboard, adding a note to myself. “If we can standardize the process, it removes opportunities for subjective denial.”
“Bureaucracy,” Jared says with a shake of his head.
Mixie stretches on my lap, her claws extending before retracting, and my hand drops to the top of the cat’s head to resume petting her. The warmth of her body, the familiar scents of Emily’s kitchen, and the presence of these two people have become so precious to me that sometimes I forget there was a time before them.
Not wanting the digital world to intrude any further tonight, I close the laptop. “That’s enough work.”
Emily takes a sip of her beer. “Quinn’s Halloween costume is coming along well. Blake showed me pictures of the fitting yesterday.”
The conversation shifts to Quinn’s octopus costume with its wire-supported tentacles, the upcoming harvest festival on Harbor Road, and Jared’s plans for winterizing the boats. Throughout it all, my hand continues its rhythmic stroking of Mixie’s fur, and the cat’s purr forms a contented baseline beneath our voices.
Under the table, Emily’s knee settles against mine, a point of contact as natural and necessary as breathing.