I found myself straightening things without meaning to.
First the couch cushions. Then the socks—I picked them up and didn't know where to put them, so I folded them and left them on the arm of the couch. I stacked the mail neatly, aligning thecorners. The TV remote I placed parallel to the edge of the coffee table.
In the kitchen, I straightened the dish towel and moved the salt and pepper shakers together. I wiped down the counter even though it wasn't dirty.
Each small adjustment felt like a conversation I didn't know how to have out loud.
Thank you for saving me. Thank you for letting me stay. I don't know how to repay you, but I can do this.
By noon, I'd organized most of the apartment.
The chair in the bedroom was empty now—I'd folded Vance's clothes and put them in the dresser, guessing at which drawer was which. I lined up the shoes by the closet door. I made the bed with careful corners, the way I'd seen housekeepers do it my whole life but never done myself.
I stood in the doorway and looked at my work.
It suddenly occurred to me that this might be unwelcome. That Vance had his own system, his own way of doing things, and I'd just reorganized his belongings without asking.
You're a guest. You don't get to touch someone else's things.
But it was too late to undo it now. I'd just have to apologize when he got back.
The afternoon stretched out, long and empty.
I found some instant oatmeal in the cabinet and made myself lunch—following the instructions on the packet exactly, terrified of messing up even something this simple. It tasted like paste, but it was food I'd made myself.
Another small victory.
I thought about Elizabeth.
By now, she would be fielding calls from concerned friends, trying to make sense of what had happened. Her parents would be furious. Her mother had probably already called a lawyer.
And Elizabeth herself—kind, patient Elizabeth—would be wondering what she'd done wrong.
Nothing. You did nothing wrong. I was the one in the wrong.
I pressed my forehead against the cool window glass and watched the street below. Ordinary people going about their lives. They probably knew how to cook, do laundry, pay bills, and exist in the world. They likely didn't feel like they were learning to be human at twenty-six.
I should feel worse about this. I should be drowning in guilt. Instead, I felt lighter than I had in years.
That probably made me a terrible person.
Or maybe it just made me honest.
Vance returned at six.
I heard his key in the lock and stood up from the couch, suddenly nervous. Would he be angry about the organizing? Would he think I'd overstepped?
He stepped inside, still in work clothes, and stopped.
His gaze moved slowly across the room. The straightened cushions. The neat stack of mail. The remote placed just so.
"You cleaned."
"I—yes. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have touched your things without asking. I just—I needed something to do, and—"
"Tobias."
I stopped talking.
