I adjust my apron one last time, smoothing the fabric over my favorite cotton dress—the pale yellow one with the tiny white flowers that Raymond says brings out the sunshine in my eyes. The pie is cooling on the windowsill inside, and the house smells of cinnamon and warm apples.

The street is quiet. Mrs. Gable is watering her petunias across the way, and the Henderson boys are chasing each other on their bicycles, their laughter echoing off the neat rows of houses. But I'm not watching any of them. My eyes are fixed on the corner of the street, waiting.

And then I hear it.

That familiar, low rumble. The steady purr of a polished black Chevrolet turning onto Maple Street, moving at that easy, unhurried pace that Raymond always drives when he's almost home. My heart does that little flip it's done every single day for the past six years.

The car glides toward the driveway, sunlight catching the chrome like a wink. Through the windshield, I can see him—shirtsleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand on the steering wheel, the other already reaching to roll down his window before the engine even cuts.

But none of that matters. The moment he reaches the porch steps, his arms are already opening.