Through gritted teeth, I whispered my new mantra, “Don’t die, don’t cry, and don’t kill your sister.”
I turned toward the house.
The screen door creaked. I stepped back into the kitchen and let the storm door slap shut behind me. The quiet was immediate—and suspicious.
I glanced around. Silence, except for the slow drip of the faucet and the faint tick of the wall clock.
I closed my eyes. Inhaled.
It’s fine. I’m fine. Everything is fine.
Ping.
My eyes flew open. I reached for my phone, already bracing for it.
Amanda
I’m so sorry, but I can’t do this anymore. Good luck!
I stared at the screen.
A single, peanut butter–slicked feather floated past the window.
I had exactly four and a half days to figure out a new morning routine before the school year shifted into full gear. That meant juggling drop-off and pickup times, managing Winnie’s five-year-old dramatics, and keeping my business from collapsing under the weight of historical ledgers and digital deadlines.
I picked up my mug and took a long sip of cold coffee, now lukewarm and slightly bitter.
Then I turned around and screamed silently into the pantry.
TWO
SELENE
The morning airwas thick with lake humidity, a soft heat that clung to my skin and made the porch boards sweat beneath my bare feet and turned every tiny task into an annoyance. I sat on the back step with my second cup of coffee, watching a chipmunk dart beneath the hedge. The neighborhood cat, unimpressed, watched with matching energy from across the lawn. For a moment it was peaceful, or as close to peaceful as life got lately.
I’d been operating under the illusion that Amanda would return from her spontaneous “mental health week” and reclaim her post as the world’s most inconsistent nanny.
Spoiler alert: That illusion had popped like a balloon in a porcupine pit.
I took another sip. The coffee had already cooled, the bitterness curling across my tongue as I scrolled through my inbox on my phone. Restoration quotes. Overdue invoices. A polite-but-firm reminder that the maritime museum’s registry was still missing twenty-seven scans.
I could do this.
I just needed a little grace. A little time. Maybe a miracle.
That was when I heard it—the low rumble of a truck engine, followed by the distinct clatter of something heavy being hauled up a porch.
I glanced over.
And then immediately wished I hadn’t.
With his back to me, he was shirtless.
Of course he was shirtless.
Standing near the back alleyway of the empty duplex unit next to mine—now apparently not so empty—was a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a fitness influencer’s thirst trap.
He had a box tucked under one arm; a backward cap holding in messy, sun-streaked hair; and the kind of tattooed forearms that made rational thought difficult.
