She chuckles. “I believe it.”
“She really likes you.”
“Ditto.” She looks at me with a soft expression as she rinses a plate and places it on the drying rack. “Oh, look at that, you can see right into our kitchen window from yours.”
That’s not the only set of windows that line up between our two houses. But I keep that to myself, not willing to admit I’ve seen her through my bedroom window. Out of shame—at least, that’s what I tell myself.
“So, I’m all ears.”
“Ah. Well, I am the youngest of three. And the only one without a career, so I drew the short straw and had to come home for our father.”
“I see. What do your siblings do?”
“One older brother, thirty-five, and an older sister who is thirty-two. Both corporate, Ben’s a lawyer and Hannah is in real estate. Safe to say they weren’t going to leave their jobs for Dad.”
“So that makes you the kind one?”
She huffs a strained laugh. “More like the useless one.”
“Celeste,” I say, my tone low and lined with annoyance. This woman is many things, useless is not one of them.
“I’m self-aware enough to be able to admit when I have nothing to show for the last decade, Quinton.”
She returns to the washing up, her movements becoming more rigorous with every swirl of the suds-soaked cloth. And when her cheeks redden and she doesn’t look up from her task, I can guess where her thoughts are at.
“Hey,” I say, resting my hand on her wrist to still it. “Don’t do that to yourself.”
She swallows and eventually turns her head to meet my gaze. And fuck, hers is silver lined.
Sniffing, she attempts to dry her eyes with her sleeve at the crook of her elbow.
Dammit.
I never intended for my listening to end like this.
A crash rings out from the living room.
“Oh shit. Dad.” Celeste is peeling away from the sink, drying her hands on her jeans as she rushes from the kitchen toward the sound.
Chapter
Eleven
CELESTE
“Da—Hank, are you okay?” I drop to my knees by the shelf of records that’s been knocked over, the vinyls spread over the hardwoods.
“Ah, I’m fine.” He bats my hand away and pushes up off the floor, first onto all fours then to his feet.
What on earth was he doing?
“Sorry ’bout all this, Quin. I was just looking at your artwork. Guess I lost my balance.”
It’s now that I see a large landscape hanging over where the shelf was against the wall of the living room.
“I can clean it up.” Bending down, I gather the records as Quinton rights the shelf, returning it to its place against the wall.
“Tisha,” Dad says, excitement lining his voice, “hell, this is one of yours!”
