She didn't know why she'd done that, drink almost a whole bottle of wine. It
wasn't like her, was it?
She rang the bell again. She thought she could hear footsteps. What would
she say?
Peter, I'm not really a lush. I just love cheap wine…
Peter, studies have shown that a little wine before bed helps you sleep better,until you throw up…
Peter, you should know I only drink when I'm back in my hometown dealing
with a high-stress project, and a guy I can't seem to get out of my brain…
Peter, I—
The door opened.
“Hi, Kate.” He didn't slam the door. Good sign. “Sorry, I was just out back
on the porch.”
The screen door was still there, but she didn't wait. “Peter, I just wanted to
apologize for last night.”
He shook his head and smiled. “No apology necessary. You're under a lot of stress.”
Yes, stress. Works for me. “Well, I just wanted you to know I don't normally, you know, drink that much.”
“Forget it.” He pushed the screen door open. “Come in?”
“You're probably busy. 'A teacher's work is never done,' right?” Another flat
joke.
“Actually, I'm all done for today.”
“Oh. Good.” She stepped through. The screen door dropped back, then
settled against the jamb with a click.
She'd always liked the Clark's house, almost more than her own. It just seemed so homey for some reason. Big wrap-around front porch, two stories with lots of character. Could be a bed-and-breakfast if someone wanted to put in
the work. Awfully big for one person, though.
Peter hadn't changed it much. There were a few signs a man lived alone here. A bike leaning in the corner. Running shorts draped over a dining room chair.
Music was playing in the background. She caught it from a memory. When
she worked a summer at the sweet-corn stand on the edge of town. Mr. Peterson
loved to listen to the oldies station. The title bounced up from her memory.
“Don't Do Your Love.”
“Nice song.”
He seemed puzzled, then picked up on it. “Oh, that. I'm supposed to help choose music for the Homecoming Dance this Saturday. It's an eighties theme.”
“I heard.”
“You know how it is. Wait thirty years and everything is retro and cool again.”
“Hmm.” She rocked on her heels. He cleared his throat.
“Well,” she said. “I guess I should be—”
“Want to see my star?” he said at the same time.
* * *
Peter peered through the finder scope, then adjusted the focuser. He squinted through the eyepiece, which went fuzzy, then clear. In the center was a tiny, faint dot. He checked the coordinates on a small blue piece of paper again to be sure.
“There it is if you want to see it.”
They were on his back porch. A ceiling fan turned slowly above them. The
