But also, good job, me.
Pursuing a crush on my temporary housemate is a bad idea.
She has enough going on.
Making her actively dislike me without being an outright dick is the best way forward.
But when she finally stops gaping at me and doubles over laughing—legit, she’s holding on to the edge of the island as she bends over, wheezing—something loosens in my chest.
Something that feels like all of the grief that’s been holding my heart back from fully beating lets go, and I feel a solidthump thump thumpagainst my breastbone that hasn’t been the same since Caden passed away.
House needs laughter, dummy, he whispers in my head.Welcome back to living here.
The teakettle whistles. Ziggy straightens, still giggling, her cheeks completely and fully red now, her blue eyes dancing as she carries the kettle to the other counter.
She’s not using the coffee machine.
Instead, she’s doing that pour-over thing Caden always did too.
I didn’t do it for myself because it was too much effort. I did it for him anytime he wanted coffee but wasn’t up for making it himself, especially in those last months, but I don’t do it for myself.
Reminded me too much of him.
But now—it’s nice.
Weird to be on this side of it, having someone else do it for me.
But the memory doesn’t tighten my chest again.
It just lives there, existing, next to my still-beating heart.
Right next to the gratitude that someone’s here taking care of me the way I always try to take care of everyone else.
Making me feel far less alone than I’ve been since Caden died.
“My sister is a lot younger than I am,” Ziggy says. “We weren’t really close while she was growing up. But you were tight with your brother?”
“Best friends,” I confirm.
“I’d give you my best friend as a substitute, but it turns out she’s a dick.”
She flashes me the tiniest hint of a villain smile, and it makes my balls tighten.
“You don’t know what happened?” I ask. “Why you’re not friends anymore?”
If you looked upexasperationin the dictionary, you’d find the face she’s making now. “Best I can tell, I just wasn’t around enough, and when I was, I talked too much about enjoying my life? I shipped wine from Italy for her wedding. I saved up all of my credits that the cruise line gave us so that she could have a week-long bachelorette party with a dozen of her friends at sea in the Med. I thought I was sharing my life with her, but I suppose…it looked like I was showing off? I don’t know. Best guess? I probably insulted her mother-in-law or didn’t call often enough or something. Can youpleasetell me how you like your eggs?”
That’s shitty. All of it. “Cooked.”
Hello, stern librarian look.
Hello, painful hard-on.
“Scrambled,” I finally say. “I liked how you made them Saturday too, but that seems like a lot of work for a Monday morning.”
She delivers coffee to me, then moves around the kitchen, pulling things out of the fridge and prepping breakfast.
“Do you have other friends around town still?” I ask her as she cracks eggs one-handed into a bowl.
