"You're really weird," she says finally. "Like, just objectively. You show up, you say one sentence that destroys something in me, and then you leave. Who does that?"
"Someone who thinks you should know you're doing okay," I say.
There's a sound from the direction of the main road. Voices. Footsteps on the path leading back to my property. Tessa emerges first, then Gage, then their dogs — Rocco and Toby, two mutts that have enough energy between them to power a small town.
Tessa takes one look at the situation — Gabby on the log pile, Jasper's head in her lap, me sitting six feet away with fresh wood chips on my boots — and her face does this thing.
I know that face. It's the face that means she's putting together information and arriving at conclusions I'm not interested in confirming.
"Jace." She looks at me. Then at Gabby. Then back at me. "Who's your friend?"
"Gabby," Gabby says, before I can answer. She gestures at the split logs. "I've been learning to do that, apparently."
"Tessa." She's already grinning. "And that's Gage. He doesn't talk much."
"Completely normal," Gage agrees, which is Gage-speak for I'm already amused and also I'm not going to say anything. Hesits on a log. Rocco and Toby immediately go to Jasper like he's the security blanket for all canines in the area.
"Six logs," Gabby says, and there's something in her voice that wasn't there an hour ago — a quiet satisfaction she's trying not to make too much of. "I came out here convinced my hands were structurally unsuited to this. Turns out they needed someone to stop letting me overthink it."
Tessa's grin gets wider.
"She needed to learn," I say.
"I'm sure," Tessa says. "Very practical skillset for a pastry chef to develop."
Gage makes a sound that might be a laugh.
Gabby glances toward the path. "I should get back. Those scones won't box themselves." She looks at the log pile once more, like she's making sure it's still there, still real. "Today was a good day."
She's not spiraling. She's just going.
"Gabby," I say.
She stops.
"You're doing okay," I say.
She looks back at me. Her throat moves.
"You keep saying that," she says.
"It keeps being true," I say.
Tessa is watching this exchange with absolute delight. Gage is looking at the trees like they're the most interesting thing he's ever seen in his entire life.
Jasper gets up and follows Gabby toward the path. Rocco and Toby immediately move to follow — a full canine exodus — and Gage puts out a hand without looking.
"No," he says.
They stop. They watch Jasper go with the betrayed expressions of dogs who know they're being left behind.
Even my dog has made his choice.
"Thank you," Gabby says, from the path. "For the instruction. And the everything else." A pause. "I'm going before I say something embarrassing."
She leaves. Jasper follows. She walks down the path, disappears into the tree line, doesn't come back.
"So," Tessa says, and her voice is dangerous in that gentle way she has. "Wood chopping instruction."