Daniel brought a folding chair, two paper cups and no flowers.
Iris saw the choice before she could decide what she thought of it.
“Tea,” he said. “I didn’t know whether you’d eaten.”
“Not yet.”
“Me neither.”
He set the chair near the window, leaving enough distance between it and hers that neither would have to pretend not to notice. She sat. He handed her a cup, then took the other chair.
For a moment they looked at the room instead of each other.
“It looks like you,” he said.
“It looks like boxes.”
“Some of the boxes look like you.”
She smiled before she meant to. He saw it and did not try to build a bridge too quickly across the small opening.
“How was the first day?”
“Today? Three clients. Yesterday was mostly carrying things.”
“Good clients?”
“Two straightforward. One complicated.”
He nodded. Then he put the cup down.
“I kept the job from you because I didn’t want to have the conversation. That’s the part I need to say without making it smaller.”
She looked at him.
“I told myself I was protecting the evening. I was protecting myself from seeing you disappointed. Then I let you keep making plans while I knew mine.”
“Yes.”
“I wasn’t being considerate. I was making the difficult part yours to discover.”
She gripped the cup with both hands. Hearing him name it did not remove the hurt. It stopped her feeling she had to defend its existence.
“And the marriage sentence?” she asked.
He looked down briefly, then back at her.
“I was frightened by how much I wanted. I used the newest thing between us to make your expectations sound unreasonable. It was cruel.”
“Yes,” she said again, more quietly.
“I’m sorry.”
They sat with the apology. He did not rush to add a reason she ought to forgive him.
Outside, the barber’s sign creaked faintly in the wind. Downstairs, Saul locked the front door. The small sound made the room feel more private.
“I didn’t want you to give up Oregon,” Iris said.
“I know.”
“I wanted you to let me know what was happening while it still felt as if we were in the same story.”
His face tightened. “I understand that now.”
“And I wanted you Friday. At the opening. More than I wanted the shelf.”
“I should have heard that.”
“I should have said it. I made you useful because it was easier than asking if you wanted to be there for me.”
He leaned forward, forearms on his knees.
“I did want to be there.”
“But you wanted the easier flight.”
“Yes.”
The honesty was plain and unflattering. She liked it more than a grand explanation.
“The work begins Monday,” he said. “I booked Friday because it gave me time to settle, check the house, not arrive tired. That was sensible for work. I treated it as if there was no other thing worth considering.”
He took a folded page from his jacket, then stopped before opening it.
“I haven’t brought a presentation.”
“I was going to ask whether there were charts.”
A small laugh escaped him. “Only a calendar.”
He put it on the table between them. Oregon, six weeks, the commitment unchanged. A Saturday flight, arriving in time to get organized Sunday. Return booked for the Monday after the final week, allowing the weekend for packing and the handover.
She read it without touching it.
“You changed the flight.”
“Yes.”
“For the opening?”
“Yes. If you still want me there.”
Her throat tightened. “I do.”
He nodded, visibly steadying himself.
“There is something else. A firm in Newport has been asking whether I’d take regular regional work. Two days a week, plus local assignments I choose. Less money than traveling contracts. More weeks in the same place.”
“You’ve accepted?”
“Yes. Starting after Oregon. We signed the agreement yesterday.”
She looked at him carefully. “Because of me?”
“Because I keep saying I want a life I can come home to, then choosing work that postpones it. You made that harder to ignore. But it isn’t a payment I’m offering for you to take me back.”
“What if I don’t?”
His eyes held hers.
“I’ll still go to Newport.”
She sat back. The room felt very quiet.
She looked from the return date to his face.
“What happens if Oregon asks you to stay longer?”
“I tell them I need time to answer. Then I call you.”
“To ask permission?”
“To find out what it would mean for us before I say yes. Then we decide what we can live with. I may still want something you don’t like. You may too.”
She looked at his hand resting near the calendar, the pale scar at his wrist.
“And you won’t wait until I’m happy about something else because you don’t want to spoil it?”
“No.”
“You can’t promise you’ll never get it wrong.”
“No. I can promise not to call avoiding you kindness when you tell me what I’ve done.”
For a moment she couldn’t speak. He stayed where he was, allowing her the time.
“I missed you,” she said at last.
His face changed. The composure went out of it so quickly that she saw what the week had cost him.
“I missed you too.”
“I didn’t want that to be enough.”
“It isn’t.”
“No.”
She put the tea down and held out her hand.
He came to her, slowly enough that she could stand.
His arms closed around her, and she let herself hold him properly this time. No work ending. No reason to pretend the embrace belonged to anything except them.
“I love you,” she said against his shirt.
He drew a breath she felt beneath her cheek.
“I love you.”
When he kissed her, the relief was so sharp she nearly cried. She kept one hand at his face, feeling the reality of him while he kissed her again, gentler the second time, not trying to carry them past what they had said.
Eventually they sat down, his chair pulled closer now.
They talked about six weeks. Proper calls twice a week, messages when they wanted them, a visit if her new work and money allowed it.
Then she told him about the apartment.
He listened, asked whether she liked it and did not propose moving her into Providence to solve the rent.
“I do,” she said. “It’s small. The kitchen window opens.”
“Important.”
“Apparently.”
He smiled. She touched his knee.
“I’d like you to see it when I can show you.”
“I’d like that.”
At eight-thirty they discovered that both cups were cold and neither had eaten. The room was too small for the evening to keep pretending it had no practical needs.
“Dinner?” he asked.
“Yes. Somewhere you don’t need three warnings about the spice.”
“That was one meal.”
“A memorable one.”
He laughed, folded the chair and waited while she checked the iron was off. At the door she paused, looking back at the machine, the blue seat, the garments on the rail.
“Tomorrow I’ve got work,” she said.
“I know.”
“I’d still like you to stay tonight.”
He took her hand.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d like that very much.”