"What are you reading?" I ask, nodding toward the book, unable to make myself leave just yet.
She holds it up—a well-worn paperback with a cracked spine. "Hemingway. 'The Old Man and the Sea.' Not exactly bedtime reading, but it helps me think."
"About what?"
She considers the question, her head tilting slightly. "Life, I guess. Choices. The things we fight for and the things we let go."
There's something in her expression, a vulnerability beneath the strength, that draws me in. Before I can think better of it, I find myself sitting on the other end of the couch.
"Heavy thoughts for late night," I observe.
She smiles, but it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "That's when they tend to visit. When everything else is quiet."
I understand that all too well. The thoughts that only surface in the dark, when defenses are lower and truths harder to ignore.
"What about you?" she asks. "What keeps Tank up at night?"
The question is innocent enough, but the way she says my name, not like a nickname but like it's actually who I am, makes it feel more intimate.
"Responsibility, mostly," I answer honestly. "To the club, to Lilly, to the promises I've made."
"And to yourself?" she probes gently.
I consider this. "Not sure I know how to separate myself from those responsibilities anymore. They've become who I am."
She nods like she understands completely. "That happens, doesn't it? We become what others need us to be, until one day we look in the mirror and wonder who we'd be if all those expectations disappeared."
The insight strikes closer to home than I'm comfortable with. This woman sees too much, cuts through my defenses too easily.
"Would you be different?" I ask. "If you could be anything, with no expectations?"
She draws her knees to her chest, considering. "I don't know. Maybe bolder. Less cautious. I've spent so much of my life being careful. Careful not to rock the boat with my stepfather, careful not to put down roots I'd just have to tear up again, careful not to want things I can't have."
Our eyes meet across the couch.
"And what do you want, Katty?" I ask, my voice lower now.
She holds my gaze, her chest rising and falling with a deep breath.
"Things I probably shouldn't," she admits quietly. "People I probably shouldn't."
The plural is there, but her eyes never leave mine, making her meaning unmistakable.
I should get up now. Walk away. Go to the spare room and close the door on this conversation, on this possibility, on this woman who's somehow slipped past defenses I thought impenetrable.
Instead, I find myself shifting closer on the couch, drawn by a force I can't—or won't—resist.
"I’m leaving in a few days," I remind her, though whether I'm trying to convince her or myself, I'm not sure.
"I know," she says simply.
"I'm too old for you," I add, another feeble attempt at reason.
She almost smiles at that. "I'm twenty-seven, Tank. Not exactly a child."
The revelation surprises me. I had her pegged for early twenties based on what she'd said about college.
"Took me a while to finish school," she explains, reading my expression. "Had to work my way through. Not all of us had the Marines paying our way."
