April arrived and Marcus pulled back further.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. The way tides pulled back — gradually, incrementally, the waterline retreating in small measures that were individually imperceptible and collectively significant. By the time you noticed how far the water had gone the beach was already wide and unfamiliar and the distance was harder to name than to feel.
He still came to the bakery.
Once a week now instead of twice. Thursday mornings, reliably, the coffee from Atlantic and the window table and the conversation that was warm and layered and real. He still texted. He still called on Sunday evenings. He still covered my hand under the table at family dinners and kissed my temple when we said goodnight.
But the Tuesday mornings were gone.
And the impromptu F
