My key sticks in the lock, because apparently WD-40 is a foreign concept in my world, when I hear the telltale waddle-thump. The ducks are huddled on the back porch again, their snow-white feathers glowing in the darkness. Despite everything I've read about their cold-weather resilience, guilt still prickles every time I see them out there.
"You're supposed to be in your coop," I inform them, as they peer hopefully through the glass, those orange bills pressed against the door. "You know, where there's actual shelter?"
They don't move. Just stand there, unblinking. Louie pecks at the window.
"Fine." I crack open the door, and they parade inside. "But this is a one-time thing. Just like yesterday. And the day before."
They settle into their usual spot by the radiator. Salem watches from his perch on the bookshelf, judging my complete lack of backbone when it comes to his feathered siblings with abandonment issues.
The Christmas lights I hung last weekend twinkle through my window. They're slightly crooked, because I didn't have Caleb to help this year. I'm still angry. Still hurt. Still think blocking his number was the right call, even if it was like cutting out part of myself. But I really wish he was here, and we could fix things. And sometimes, I can't stop wondering if, somewhere in Boston, he's missing me too.
I'd called Martin thesecond I decided to move back, praying the apartment above Cheesy Delights was still available. Turns out no one wanted to live in a place that perpetually smelled like garlic and marinara. Their loss, my desperate gain.
The key sits heavy in my palm as Martin drops it there, with all the ceremony of handing over nuclear launch codes. Which, considering this is technically my first real apartment—and my first real shot at not completely fucking up my life—might not be that far off.
"Guess you're not escaping this place so easily, huh?" he grins, his salt-and-pepper mustache twitching with amusement.
"If you need help with the dinner rush, I'm literally one staircase away from folding dough in my sleep." I twirl the key ring around my finger. "Though don't test that theory too soon."
Martin's laugh echoes through the empty pizzeria. "Just like old times, eh? Except now you've got fancy computer skills to fall back on when the dough doesn't cooperate."
"Hey, my dough skills were legendary."
"That's one word for it." He claps my shoulder. "Good to have you back, kid. Even if you're upstairs now instead of behind the counter."
I follow him toward the stairs, past the walk-in freezer that still has my initials carved somewhere inside from that time I got locked in during inventory.
"Previous tenant left it pretty clean," Martin says as we reach the landing. "Had the whole place repainted last month. New fixtures in the bathroom too."
The door opens with a gentle protest of hinges, and suddenly I'm standing in my first real apartment. It's small—basically one big space, with a kitchen tucked in the corner, and a separate bedroom that's more of a suggestion than an actual room.
But it's mine.
"Previous guy left the blinds," Martin gestures to the windows that let in decent light. "And the kitchen's got all the basics. Fridge works fine, but it makes this weird humming sound sometimes."
I walk the perimeter, footsteps echoing slightly in the empty space. The floors are worn hardwood that's seen better days but still has character. The walls are a fresh coat of what the paint store calls "eggshell". It's nothing fancy, but it feels like a clean slate."
"Thanks for this," I say. "Seriously."
Martin waves me off, already heading for the door. "Just don't forget us little people when you're some big shot game designer."
I manage a nod, and he disappears down the stairs, leaving me alone in my echo-chamber of an apartment.
"Well," I announce to the empty room, "guess this is home now." The word sound strange on my tongue.
The boxes from Boston mock me from my car; a sad collection of gaming equipment, clothes overdue for washing, and one very unhappy plant that probably won't survive. Each trip up the stairsreminds me that I should've taken Matt up on his offer to help, but this feels like something I have to do on my own.
My gaming setup claims the corner by the window, even though I haven't figured out internet yet. Fernando—the plant Sarah named—gets a spot on the kitchen ledge. Hopefully, some actual sunlight will bring him back to life.
"Don't die on me now," I mutter, adjusting its sad leaves. "I've got enough guilt without adding plant murder to the list."
By the time I've hauled up the last box, the sun's starting to set, painting the walls in a warm gold that make the empty space cozy. My phone buzzes, Mom's third reminder about dinner. Because apparently, moving back to town means I'm immediately required to subject myself to a full-family meal.
At least she promised her famous chicken casserole.
The house looks exactly the same, right down to the way the porch light flickers every third blink. Mom's got the Christmas lights up already, though Dad definitely helped because they're perfectly straight. The wreath on the door is new, probably from one of her craft nights.
I barely get my key in the lock before it flies open.
