Dad mentioned that Martha went into town every evening while we were eating breakfast, completely unaware that the information had immediately become the most important thing I'd heard all day.
"She's usually gone around four," he said casually. "Gets groceries, runs errands. Sometimes stops by the post office."
I tried very hard to act normal.
"Oh," I said, taking another sip of my coffee. "That's nice."
Except apparently my definition of acting normal was staring at the clock every few minutes and not being able to sit still for more than ten seconds.
By noon, Dad had noticed.
By one, he was suspicious.
By two, he was openly watching me.
"You alright?" he asked.
I looked up from where I was pretending to read.
"Of course."
His eyes narrowed slightly.
"You sure?"
"Yes, Papa."
"Hmm."
That was the sound he made when he didn't believe a word I said.
I ignored him.
By the time the clock finally crawled toward four, I had checked the time so many times that even I was getting annoyed with myself.
Dad leaned against the kitchen counter, watching me.
"You've been acting strange all day."
"I have not."
"You have."
"I haven't."
He gave me a look.
The kind that said he knew exactly what was happening, even when he had no idea what was happening.
"I'm fine," I insisted.
"Didn't say you weren't."
"But you're thinking it."
"I am."
I sighed.
He was impossible.
He disappeared into the hallway and came out a few minutes later.
I tried not to look too eager as Dad grabbed his keys off the kitchen counter.
"Why do you look happy I'm leaving?"
I froze.
"What? I don't."
His eyebrow lifted.
"You're imagining things."
"Uh-huh."
He shook his head, walking toward the door.
"Don't do anything mischievous while I'm gone."
My eyes widened.
"Me? Mischievous?"
"Yes. You."
"I am a grown woman," I tried to sound offended.
"Exactly. Which means you should know better."
"I understand. Go on now."
He stared at me for another second.
Clearly unconvinced.
Then he walked out.
A few moments later, Martha arrived, and the two exchanged greetings before climbing into Dad's truck.
I peeked through the window, watching as they drove away.
The moment the truck disappeared down the road, I let out a breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding.
I rushed into the kitchen.
The plan was simple and completely innocent.
I was not going there because I wanted to see him.
I was going there because I had made muffins.
Normal people bring their neighbors baked goods.
That was normal.
Very normal.
I mixed the batter, added the ingredients, and slid the tray into the oven.
Then I ran to my room while they baked.
Twenty minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror.
I'd chosen a blue jumpsuit with brown boots, my hair braided into two neat pigtails.
I looked like someone who actually belonged on a farm.
I turned sideways.
"Okay," I said to myself. "Not my best look but it should do."
When the muffins were done, I carefully packed them into a small container, making sure everything looked presentable.
I headed out the door.
The container of muffins sat carefully in my hands, somehow feeling much heavier than it actually was.
I walked along the familiar dirt path as the farm stretched quietly around me, until all I could hear was the occasional rustle of leaves and my own heartbeat.
The white house slowly came into view through the trees.
I tightened my grip on the muffin container.
"You're just dropping off muffins," I whispered to myself. "It's not a big deal."
My steps slowed as I approached the gate before halting to a stop.
For a moment, I just stood there.
Summoning as much courage as I could.
Then I pushed the gate open.
The sound seemed much louder than it should have.
I walked up the path, every step making my nerves climb higher.
By the time I reached the front door, I was suddenly very aware of everything.
My hair.
My outfit.
My entire being.
The fact that I had rehearsed what I was going to say at least fifteen times and had forgotten every single version.
I lifted my hand, paused a bit, then knocked.
For a few seconds, nothing happened.
I told myself that was good.
Maybe he wasn't home.
Maybe—
The door opened.
And every thought disappeared.
My breath hitched.
The man standing in front of me wasn't the blurry memory I had carried for years.
He was real.
Taller than I expected.
Older than the person in my memory.
Different.
And yet...
Something about him felt painfully familiar.
His dark eyes settled on me, calm and unreadable, through the glasses that sat perfectly on his face.
Neither of us spoke.
I tightened my grip on the container.
"Hi," I finally managed. I couldn't even recognize my own voice.
His gaze flickered briefly to the box in my hands, then back to my face, lasting a beat longer, like he was trying to place me.
"Can I help you?"
My heart stumbled.
Because the thing about memories was they could lose details. They could even blur faces.
But some things still wouldn't change.
And heavens help me, I knew that voice.
•••