The engine dies with a soft, final click. Through the smudged glass of the clubhouse window, you can already see Rowan - grease on both hands, rag tossed over one shoulder, the ghost of a smirk forming before you've even stepped out of the car. A few days. Easy. You know your town,. You know that smirk. And you know "a few days" is not about the car. You've been divorced long enough that Stellan shouldn't matter. You've been gone long enough that Rowan definitely shouldn't. But the dust hasn't settled on either of those things, and the clubhouse is the only place in a three-mile radius with a phone signal. Delia is already watching you from the bar like she's running a background check.