Alex sat across from me, half in shadow, half in light. He wore a soft teal blue t-shirt that clung to his chest, his hair still damp from a shower at his bungalow. He had one leg tucked under the other, his fork motionless over a plate of mango and papaya.
The dark sunglasses made it hard to read him. There was a faint twitch of his jaw as he pressed his lips together in thought.
We hadn't said much since we sat down.
I wasn't sure whether it was a case of not knowing what to say or not wanting to break the spell of paradise.
The silence between us wasn't uncomfortable. It was more like something delicate—a fragile sugar sculpture that would shatter if we breathed too hard.
I looked away, out toward the water, where the hull of a white sailboat cut a slow arc toward the open sea. A gentle breeze lifted the edge of our linen tablecloth, and the steam from my mug curled upward.
I hadn't planned to spend my time in Tahiti with company, but something about Alex—quiet, complicated, still grieving—had pulled me in and refused to let go.
He finally broke the silence. "So, where's home for you?"
I returned my attention to the table. "Seattle. You?"
He blinked. "No shit. Same."
"You're kidding."
"It's not the kind of thing I'd lie about."
I chuckled. "I'm in Queen Anne. Well, West Seattle now. I moved about three months back."
"I teach history at SU and live on Capitol Hill."
"Jesus." I shook my head, leaning back in my chair, the woven fibers creaking under my weight. "That's—"
"Impossible?" He smiled wide and shook his head. "Three days at an island resort in the South Pacific, and I find someone who probably shops at the same QFC I do."
"I would've remembered you."
His eyes met mine, steady and warm.
"Small world."
"Small island, at least." I bit into a slice of toast, crumbs scattering across the plate. "Not many places to hide."
"Were you looking to?"
I paused, the question hitting closer to home than he could know. "My brothers put me on that plane. Said I needed a break before I broke."
I hadn't meant to admit the weakness. "Marcus is the oldest. He's got that—" I searched for the correct phrasing, "—that way of making everything he says sound like the only reasonable option."
"Ah. The voice of authority." Alex nodded. "I have a sister like that. She once told me I'd regret not joining the debate team in high school so convincingly that I spent four years arguing about nuclear proliferation and environmental policy."
"And did you regret it?"
"God, no. I loved every second, but I'd never admit that to her."
He speared a chunk of mango. "You know, I once slipped on a rainy Capitol Hill sidewalk and launched a dozen Top Pot donuts into traffic. You would have thought it was a national tragedy."
I snorted into my coffee. "Well, it is practically a felony in Seattle."
"The cars actually stopped. Three lanes of traffic, complete standstill." Alex gestured with his hands, animated now. "This bike messenger—beard down to here, tattoos everywhere—he pulls over, looks at my glazed casualties all over Madison Street, and says, 'Dude, I'm gonna pour one out for your maple bars tonight.'"
I laughed. "Classic Seattle. People will step over a passed-out drunk but mourn a fallen donut."
