After the call he sat in his office for a long time. Outside was nighttime D.C.—lights, traffic, the city’s constant hum. He looked at the rabbit on the shelf.
A week later his cousin Mike called from Florida. They hadn’t spoken in maybe six months. Mike was calling about a practical matter—needed advice on some land paperwork. Alex answered, helped him sort it out. At the end of the call Mike unexpectedly asked:
“You doing okay otherwise?”
“Yeah,” Alex said. Then added something he normally wouldn’t have: “Better than I was a month ago.”
Mike seemed surprised, but didn’t press.
Every few days Kate sent a short message about Lily, about the town, sometimes about the divorce. He replied. They were brief, practical messages on the surface, but he caught himself waiting for them. Not the way you wait for important news. More like the way you wait for something that reminds you there is a world beyond the office and conference rooms.
Once she sent a photo: Lily in Mrs. Parker’s garden, dirt up to her elbows, completely happy, holding a carrot. Under it she had written: “She says this one is for Peter.” He looked at the photo longer than he meant to.
At the end of September he went back, as promised, three weeks later. He brought a roofing specialist with him. The man inspected the house and drew up an estimate. They spent two days dealing with paperwork, inspections, contracts. Lily barely left Alex’s side the first evening, telling him about knitting, the garden, and how she and Mrs. Parker had found old skis in the shed. She took back the rabbit, inspected him critically, and announced that he had returned in acceptable condition.
On the last evening he and Kate sat on the porch again. Lily was asleep. It was colder than during his first visit. Late September now, and the nights had turned properly autumnal. He brought in firewood. Kate lit the stove.
They talked for a long time, longer than before. She told him about work: more assignments were coming in, she had started taking on larger projects, was developing branding for a small company. He listened and heard in her voice something that had not been there the first time they met—confidence. Quiet, internal, not flashy. But real.
“You’ve changed,” he said.
She looked at him.
“In three weeks?”
“In these months overall. Since February. I can hear the difference in the way you talk about work.”
Kate thought about that.
“Maybe,” she said at last. “When you hear long enough that you can’t do anything right, you start trying to prove something. First to other people. Then just to yourself. Then eventually you realize you were the only one who mattered in the first place.”
Alex nodded. Outside, wind moved through the apple tree. The stove crackled. It was warm and quiet.
“Kate,” he said. “I want to ask you something. Don’t answer fast.”
She turned toward him.
“Okay.”
“I want to ask,” Alex said, “whether you and Lily would consider moving to D.C.”
Kate was silent. She looked at the fire in the stove. The little glass window in the door glowed orange, and the light played across her face.
He went on, evenly, without pressure:
