They live in a three-bedroom rental in Nags Head. Twenty minutes south. Poppy has her own room. Jonah has his own room.
Melissa pays the rent herself.
She paid me back for the three months. Every dollar. In February. She showed up at my door with a cashier’s check.
She called first.
They come to my house every other Sunday.
For breakfast.
At eight.
Not 4:58. Not 5:02.
Eight o’clock.
My mother calls on Saturday to confirm.
“Is tomorrow still okay?” she asks. “Breakfast? We don’t want to intrude.”
“Tomorrow’s fine, Mom.”
“What can we bring?”
What can we bring.
My father brings coffee. From a little roaster in Duck. He found it himself. He asked the owner what kind I’d like. He told the owner about Tidewater.
The owner told me. Later. When I went in.
“Your dad,” she said. “He talks about you like you hung the moon.”
