Bea's birthday was on Tuesday.
She had said no party, then bought enough bread and cheese to feed a small wedding. Lena arrived carrying a cake Jo had made and a book wrapped badly enough that Bea guessed what it was before opening it.
“It's about flowers,” Bea said.
“No. It's a thrilling book about a woman who regrets inviting her friends upstairs.”
“Very specific.”
Bea tore the paper off. It was a book of photographs of old shops, including three florists with impractical front windows. She liked those almost as much as Lena liked boats.
“Oh,” she said, more softly. “That's lovely.”
Lena felt the pleasure of getting one thing right without having to explain it.
Daniel came with her, carrying a bottle Bea hadn't asked for but immediately opened. Jo followed after closing the café. Nate was already there, cutting bread unevenly while his sister told him the pieces weren't doorstops.
Five people filled Bea's little sitting room. There was nowhere to put a plate without moving a plant. Daniel chose the lowest chair and spent ten minutes pretending the angle hadn't defeated him.
Nate stood beside the window. Lena sat on the sofa with Jo. She was careful not to arrange herself as if either man had a claim to the next place.
For a while it was good. Bea made everybody inspect a badly designed shopfront in the new book. Jo told a story about a customer who had asked whether bread was included in a sandwich. Daniel asked sincere questions about the broken window catch, then promised to look at it another day instead of taking the birthday apart to fix something.
Nate put the music on too loudly. Bea turned it down. He turned it up again when a song she loved came on, and she got up protesting before singing every word.
Lena found herself beside him at the little food table. He passed her a napkin. Their fingers touched. Nothing more. She still stepped away too quickly.
“You don't have to be scared of the cheese,” he said quietly.
“I'm not.”
“Good.”
He moved aside before she had to ask.
At nine Daniel said he needed to go. He had an early start. He touched Lena's back.
“Come with me?”
She could have. She saw that path clearly: home, tea, the lamp in the small room, sleep.
“I'll stay for the cake. Walk back.”
He hesitated, then kissed her cheek. “All right.”
He said goodbye to everyone. Nate shook his hand without making a performance of it. Lena watched Daniel leave and felt relieved, then hated the relief.
Jo went soon after, too tired to wait for another song. Bea lit the cake candles herself because she didn't trust anybody to avoid scorching the table. Nate took a photograph, and Lena got wax on her thumb trying to shield a flame from the open window.
They sang badly. Bea laughed so hard she had to make two attempts to blow the candles out.
Afterward Lena helped wash a few plates. Nate dried. Bea told them to leave the rest and go home, then sat on the sofa with her new book, finally having the quiet birthday she'd claimed to want.
At the door Nate asked whether Lena wanted company for the walk. She knew he was going the same way to his borrowed parking space near the quay. She also knew that didn't make accepting innocent.
“Yes,” she said.
The town was warm, the streets quieter than on the music evening. They walked beside each other without touching. Nate carried a piece of birthday cake in a little box Bea had forced on him.
“My sister thinks cake solves everything,” he said.
“My sister thinks cake pays for everything.”
“Both approaches have merit.”
Lena laughed. She had drunk only one glass of wine. She couldn't pretend the ease belonged to anything other than him.
At the quay he put the cake box on the wall so he could retie his shoe.
“Don't forget that,” she said.
“I'm not abandoning cake.”
She looked at him. He understood too late.
“Sorry.”
“You don't have to make every sentence safe.”
“I haven't managed any of them so far.”
He straightened. The cake was between them. Beyond the wall the boats rocked softly in the dark.
“You were happy tonight,” he said.
“So were you.”
“I was.”
She could hear the invitation in it. Not a plan. Not an accusation. Only him standing close, having wanted the same little evening.
“Don't,” she said.
“I haven't said anything.”
“I know what you're going to say.”
He shook his head. “No, you don't.”
She looked at him. “Then say it.”
“I wanted to kiss you at the station.”
She swallowed.
“You knew I did.”
“Yes.”
“And you said no.”
“Yes.”
He stepped back. She hated the space he gave her. She hated that she wanted to close it.
“You don't get to return and make this easy,” she said.
“It isn't easy.”
“For you.”
“For either of us.”
She caught the front of his jacket. It was a small movement. She could have released it and walked away.
Instead she pulled him toward her.
The kiss was not a mistake about what either wanted. He kissed her back, one hand rising to her cheek, and she pressed closer with a hunger that made every careful sentence she'd spoken feel far away.
For a few seconds she stopped thinking.
Then her ring caught against his jacket zip.
She pulled back.
Nate let go at once. He looked as shaken as she felt.
“I have to go,” she said.
“Lena—”
“No.”
She touched her mouth. Her hand was shaking.
He didn't reach for her again. “What are you going to do?”
“Tell him.”
The words came before fear could make them complicated.
Nate looked down. “Yes.”
She picked up the cake box and pushed it into his hand because leaving it on the wall felt unbearable.
“Take that.”
Then she walked home alone.
Daniel was asleep when she got in. The kitchen light was on. He had left it for her.
She stood in the doorway looking at him, unable to make the kiss smaller than it had been.
She took off her shoes. She did not get into bed beside him.