Alice is looking at me, "That sounds beautiful."
"It is." I lean back in my chair, trying to relax even though every instinct I have is telling me to stay alert, stay ready. Old habits.
"What are you thinking now? Leaving? Staying?"
"I'm thinking maybe it's time to stop passing through."
Maya has gone back to petting Biscuit, oblivious to the weight of what I just said. But Alice heard it. I can see it in her eyes—the question, the hope, maybe even the fear.
"Because of Maya," I add, even though it's not entirely true. "She needs stability. Friends. A real school, not just whatever I can teach her between towns."
"You've been homeschooling her?"
"If you can call it that. Basic reading, math, whatever I remember from my own education." I shrug. "She's smart. Picks things up quick. But she deserves better than me fumbling through multiplication tables in motel rooms."
"I think you're probably a better teacher than you give yourself credit for," Alice says quietly. "She's confident, articulate, clearly well-cared-for. That doesn't happen by accident."
The compliment hits me harder than it should. I'm not used to people noticing the things I do right, too focused on cataloging everything I'm doing wrong.
Jenny returns with our drinks and Maya's orange juice. "Food'll be out in about ten minutes," she says, then looks at Alice. "Claire called the diner looking for you. Said something about needing to know how breakfast went?"
Alice groans. "Of course she did. Tell her I'll call her later?"
"Will do." Jenny grins and heads back inside.
"Friend of yours?" I ask.
"Best friend. Also the nosiest person in Blackwater Falls." But Alice is smiling when she says it, the kind of smile that says shewouldn't have it any other way. "She helped me pick out what to wear this morning. Had very strong opinions about it."
I look at the blue sweater again, the way it fits her, the way the color makes her eyes impossible to look away from. "She has good taste."
Alice's blush returns, spreading across her cheeks. "Thank you."
Maya tugs on my sleeve. "Daddy, can I sit with Biscuit?"
"You are sitting with Biscuit, baby."
"No, I mean with him. Like, next to him on the ground."
I look at Alice, who nods. "He won't mind. He's very patient with kids."
"Okay, but stay where I can see you."
Maya slides off her chair and settles on the ground next to Biscuit, who immediately rests his head in her lap like he's known her his whole life. She starts talking to him in a low voice and the dog listens like every word is fascinating.
"She's going to want a dog now," I say, watching them. "This is going to be a problem."
"Dogs are good problems to have," Alice says, and there's something in her voice, something warm and a little sad. "Biscuit's been really good for me. Got him about three months ago from the shelter."
I wait, sensing there's more she wants to say. She's gripping her coffee mug a little too tight, staring at Biscuit and Maya like they're the safest thing to look at.
"I needed something that was just mine," she continues. "Something that couldn't be... rearranged or criticized or taken away." She shakes her head slightly, like she's said too much. "Sorry. That probably sounds weird."
"It doesn't," I tell her, and I mean it. There's a story there: something that hurt her, something that made her need a dog with floppy ears and unconditional love. I want to ask, want to know who made this woman feel like she needed permission to have something of her own.
But the food arrives before I can, Jenny balancing plates like a circus performer.
"Chocolate chip pancakes with extra whipped cream for the princess," she announces, setting Maya's plate in front of her spot. "Orange juice, also for the princess. Regular pancakes and coffee for the grown-ups. Anything else I can get you?"