Chapter Ten — Friday
Friday rolled around, bringing with it that special feeling of something eagerly awaited.
She had been aware of the countdown, even if she didn't want to admit it. The days since Daniel had driven away from Crestview on Tuesday morning — one, two, three — each felt a bit less vibrant, like they were just passing by instead of truly living.
She was at Groundwork when she spotted his car pulling up outside.
She caught a glimpse of it through the window before she even heard it — the dark grey car, the familiar sound of the engine that she had come to recognize over the months of its comings and goings. She didn't look up from her laptop right away. She gave herself the small courtesy of finishing the sentence she was working on before finally allowing herself to glance up.
And there he was.
He walked through the Groundwork door, wearing his coat and carrying his bag, the three days apart evident in the way distance affected him — noticeable only if you knew what to look for, if you had learned to see the difference between his relaxed face and the one that showed he had been traveling.
He looked worn out.
But he was here.
Both of these observations were true, but the second one mattered far more than the first.
He spotted her at the corner table and headed straight for her — not to the counter, not to his usual spot, but directly to her. He set his bag down and took a seat across from her, his gaze fully focused on her.
"Hi," she greeted him.
"Hi." His voice was a bit rougher than usual, carrying the weariness of the motorway.
Bette appeared out of nowhere with two coffees in hand.
She placed them on the table, glanced at both of them, and then walked away without uttering a single word — a statement louder than any words could convey.
Zara looked at Daniel across the table.
"You look tired," she remarked.
"The M6 was a nightmare," he replied.
"Come home," she urged. "I made soup."
She had prepared the right kind of soup. Not the quick version — the one that took real time, made with the good stock she had been saving, and paired with the bread she had baked that morning because she needed something to keep her hands busy while she waited for Friday to roll around. He devoured two bowls. She observed him with the kind of focus that only someone who had been eagerly anticipating this exact moment could muster, and she found the reality of it far more satisfying than the wait. When he looked up from his second bowl, he caught her gaze. "You made bread," he remarked. "I make bread." "You made bread just for tonight." "I generally make bread," she replied. "Tonight just happened to be a bread night." He regarded her with that look that said he found her utterly transparent and completely charming, choosing not to push the issue further. "The soup is outstanding," he complimented. "I know," she replied. After dinner, he washed the dishes while she dried, and their little kitchen dance had become second nature — knowing who would move where, when to step aside, and how to share a small space without colliding unless that was the intention. Later, they settled on the couch. His arm wrapped around her, her head resting on his chest, the lamp casting a warm glow, while the city outside buzzed with its Friday night energy. "Boston is a go for January," he said softly. "I know. You mentioned it." "Twelve weeks." "We can handle twelve weeks." "We've made it through five days," he pointed out. "Twelve weeks is a breeze." "Twelve weeks is not a breeze," she countered. "It's manageable," he insisted. She smiled against his shirt. "It's manageable," she agreed. Outside, Crestview was warm and aglow. Inside, everything was just as it should be.