I swear the thunder’s the only reason Truman’s not out on the water. I don’t know if Edgar would go, but if it’s just rain, Truman shrugs it off. He’ll head back to his cabin for a hot shower and a change of clothes before coming to the lodge for hot food, but he’ll go. As it is, I can’t tell if it’s the thunder making him antsy or something else.
I’m behind the desk, with one of the Agatha Christies—one of his mother’s Agatha Christies—and he could pull out the checkers here or go find a different game from the library, but he doesn’t. He could also start up a conversation, but he doesn’t. He prowls, going from a chair by the window to a spot on my desk to the laundry room to check on his clothes and into the dining room in case something suddenly appeals to him, then back again.
I don’t ask. At this point it’s mostly habit not to ask, although I’m also pretty sure he’d tell me. We’ve spent enough time together, enough that even Lydia winked at me this morning, so I’m pretty sure we know where this could go. Agatha needed a single glance to figure out where this could go.
Truman comes back around to sit on the desk again, one leg swinging. “Do you want kids?”
I blink. “Uh.”
“I know, but—okay, not just but. There’s a lot of ands, I guess, but also …” He sighs and crosses his arms, which is very much not a Truman pose. It’s defensive, and distancing, and he doesn’t block himself off like that. “Lyss, I can’t do a summer fling, but if we’re not a summer fling, then we’re long-term, and I need to figure out exactly how much I need to figure out if we’re not.” He closes his eyes. “A fling.”
I take a slow breath and chew on my lip.
“I know.” His eyes are open, but he looks away. “Zero to sixty.”
Okay, but we were up here before the first guests arrived, so it’s zero to sixty in what, two months? And it’s not so much the whole are we a summer fling or what question, but the kids thing.
I’ve crossed my arms before I realize it, and my eyes are unfocused on the outside door. “If you never have kids, you never have to outlive them.”
Truman sucks in a breath.
“So, like, if you’d asked me earlier, I would’ve said yeah, sure. Doesn’t everyone?” I tilt my head. “But even that isn’t really a yes, you know?”
He nods slowly.
“Like, if I was with someone who really wanted kids, then sure. But, if I never have any …” I shrug and slouch a little. “You don’t get all the joys, I guess, but you also miss all the risks.”
This sigh means Truman’s shoulders relax back to normal. “Okay.” If he doesn’t have kids, then he can’t snap and kill them. Not sure what that means for me, but clearly it was bothering him.
Truman looks at me, searching my face for something, then nods because he’s decided I don’t need us to keep on this subject. “Anyone give you any clues today about what yesterday was all about?”
“Henry showed up earlier than usual.” I shrug. “He got into a long, involved conversation with Emily.”
“About?” he prods.
I wince. “Dead kids in Stephen King.”
“Ah.” Tru winces. “How’d that end?”
“They left together.” But the angle isn’t right for me to know how far they went together, or if they parted ways when they reached the main path.
He hesitates, but apparently it’s too clever to remain unsaid: “Dead kids is an aphrodisiac to some people?”
I shudder. “Ew. I think they both get off on the verbal sparring thing.”
“Yeah, see, I don’t really understand that part, either. Fighting all the time. Two people who always have to be right, but they can’t both be.” This is more of a grimace than a wince.
I mean, I don’t get it, either, but Truman probably knows that already. When we hang out, sure, we talk, but nothing like I’ve heard from Henry and Emily. And we also frequently sit in silence, playing a board game or not. I don’t know if we can really call those dates. Is it a date when you’re just chilling? There’s no place to go that’s close by, and one of us is always working until 8.
The door opens, and it’s Jonathan, but right now I don’t know if that’s a reason to relax or brace.
“No updates,” he says quickly, because apparently I haven’t kept my face its customer service best. “Nilo’s on it and ready to pounce, or whatever lawyers do, so no news.” He tilts his head and raises an eyebrow. “Unless you two have news?”
“He tries this every summer,” Truman murmurs out of the corner of his mouth. “I think he only hires people he wants to hook me up with.”
“Right, but it hasn’t worked until this summer,” Lydia agrees from behind us, making me jump. My face burns—was she listening?—but she winks, so maybe not.
Jonathan laughs. “I’m just trying to make things easier for myself. One phone call to restaff for next summer. Get married in May. We’ll give you good rates.”
“Uh.” That’s Agatha, because of course it would be Agatha, and Jonathan’s got such a dry sense of humor that even I’m not sure he’s entirely joking.
“Agatha!” He turns and steps aside, almost bowing as he fishes in his messenger bag. “I have an email for you.”
“Oh, good. Thank you. Um.” She takes the envelope, because Jonathan always brings them back sealed, and looks at me.
I’ve got nothing. There’s no saving grace here. If I start to protest, I’ll hurt Truman’s feelings, even though I’d end up protesting too much. Then I blink, because, God, everyone in this room knows. “That’s not a firm date,” I tell her, blushing furiously, because I’m making it sound like there will be a firm date. “Don’t pass that on.”
She looks up at Jonathan, then over to Lydia, but Agatha can’t quite seem to bring herself to look at either Truman or me. “You’re an adult,” she finally says. “You can do as you please.”
Truman’s foot nudges my chair. “Whom you please,” he adds behind his hand, so quietly I almost miss it.
“Right, well. I … yeah.” She holds up the envelope and all but slinks out. I hope she tucks that away for the short walk back to her cabin. It’s really coming down out there.
“Do you have my eggs?” Lydia wants to know, which at least explains why she came out of the kitchen.
“Eggs and more, my love,” Jonathan reassures her. “It didn’t all fit in the small cart, so I came for the big one.”
She sighs. “You could have brought the eggs now and gone back with the cart.”
He laughs and gestures for her to go back into the kitchen as he follows. “You knew I wasn’t perfect when you married me.”
“No man is.” Lydia winks at me as she retreats, calling over her shoulder, “I need those eggs!”
Truman slides closer on the desk once we’re alone again. “For the record, I’m not perfect, either.”
I have to grin up at him. “I kind of knew that already.” He starts to lean down, and I tilt my face up, but before we can close the distance the door blows open and Henry calls “Whoo, some weather we’re having!” and I have to put on my customer service smile and not look for something I can use to run him through.
Rebecca Frost 
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