“Right,” he says. “Or like . . . sunrise kayaking. I’ve always wanted to do that, and I haven’t.”

“Petra wasn’t into kayaking?” I say, disbelieving.

“She wasn’t into morning,” he says. “But we’re not talking about them. We’re talking about us.”

Just the word us triggers another blush. All the blood in my body might as well hang out in my upper third, because as soon as it leaves, it’s getting called right back. “Well, I’ve never been sunrise kayaking, but I’d try it. For one of our Sundays, if you want.”

“Really?” he says.

“I won’t be good at it,” I warn, “but I’ll try.”

“What else?” Miles murmurs, lightly squeezing my knee.

I ignore the bolt of lightning singing down my center. “I always wanted to learn to bake, but . . .”

“You were living with a serial killer,” he finishes.

I crack a smile, which makes him do the same. His hand is still resting on my knee and it feels like a parade of fire ants is crawling out from it in every direction. His gaze flickers toward my top button, then back to my face.

“What about you?” I blurt.

He looks away, teeth skimming his bottom lip as he thinks. “Action movies,” he says. “It’s probably been three years since I’ve seen an action movie.”

Peter didn’t like those either. “Me too.”

“So maybe we should,” he says.

“Maybe right now,” I say, because I need somewhere else to look, something else to think about.

He flashes a smile. “Maybe right now.”

“I’m so happy for you, honey,” Mom says between gasps for oxygen. She called me on her walk home from CrossFit, and either she’s still out of breath from the workout or—more likely—she’s keeping her walking speed at five miles per hour.

I, meanwhile, am starfished on my cushy ivory rug, staring at the ceiling with a mug of chai at my hip. This is as close as I get to life on the edge: a milky tea and a near-white rug.

“Happy for me?” I echo. I’m happy for you isn’t the reaction one expects to a story about her coworker having to temporarily ban a library patron who ripped a computer out of the wall.

“I mean, I’m glad you’ve become real friends with your coworker,” she clarifies.

“Me too.” I don’t think I realized how lonely I was here, even prebreakup.

Ashleigh and I haven’t had another big night out since our winery visit—Duke’s an involved parent, but she’s got primary custody and Mulder’s schedule is packed with extracurriculars—but even just sharing our lunch breaks at the food truck park across from the library has made Waning Bay feel more like home.

“I’m just so happy you’re putting yourself out there,” Mom says. “Your life can be totally full without a romantic relationship. Take it from me.”

She either has a much lower libido than I do, or she’s managing to burn through it by throwing tires across a poured concrete floor.

Maybe she’s onto something. Maybe I should join some kind of exercise class. Not CrossFit, but something with more lying on your back and staring at the ceiling. Yoga? I could at least start walking to work regularly, now that I live closer.

“You know, baby,” Mom goes on, “there really is always room for you here.”

On a purely spatial level, this is false. “Thanks, but I have to stay through the summer.”

“Right, right,” Mom says. “The Read-a-thon.”

I haven’t mentioned the other thing. The one-man Waning Bay Tourism Bureau, in the bedroom across the hall. Mom’s too perceptive for me to talk about that without her picking up on my rebound crush, and giving that any oxygen will only let it live longer.

“And you’ve got enough for the rent in the meantime?” she asks.

“I’m not borrowing money from you, Mom.”

“I really don’t mind,” she says.

“I’m fine.” That’s the truth, but even if it weren’t, I wouldn’t take a cent from her. For years after their split, Dad treated her like an ATM, and she helped him out every time, until I turned eighteen. Like some kind of fucked-up reverse child support, where he was the child she was obligated to support.

She told me she couldn’t have my father out on his ass, that it wasn’t right. But a funny thing happened when she cut him off: he was fine.

Mom’s done enough caretaking for two lifetimes, and if my dad can scrape by without her help, I can too. When I move, it will be because I’ve found a good job and my own place, that I can afford with my money.

“I’ve got things under control,” I promise.

She’s stopped walking, catching her breath at her front door probably. “You’ve always had a backbone of steel.”

“Wonder where I get that from,” I say.

“No idea,” she deadpans.

We say our goodbyes, do our I love you; I love you mores, and I go back to reading the library’s galley copy of a new Goonies-esque chapter book.

After a minute, though, I pick up my phone and text Ashleigh: Do you know of a good beginners’ yoga class?

She sends back nothing but an ellipsis. I reply with a question mark. She says, I don’t believe in organized exercise.

I have no idea what that means.

She adds, Looking to get ripped?

Looking for a hobby, I say, because “more friends” sounds too desperate.

Does it have to be exercise? Ashleigh asks.

Nope. When I see her typing, I head her off. But I’m not interested in the knitting circle at the library.

I’ve got something better, she says. You free next Wednesday after work?

There’s a knock at my bedroom door, and I set my phone aside, sitting up. “Come in.”