Almost like a gentle reprimand.
“Today isn’t the best day for me. I’ve got a million things?—”
“I come in peace, I swear.” I lift the bags to emphasize my point. “I’m not here to do anything but lighten the night. I know your hands are full.”
The bulbs steady when I say that, as though the house approves.
Noted.
Her whole body relaxes, like she’s finally seeing more than me for the first time.
“Next time, can you please text me first?” She asks, soft but steady. “But for now, thank you.”
She steps back, opening the door a bit wider for me to step through. I nod my thanks and shuffle inside.
“Hi, Mr. Wheeler.” Phoebe waves frantically from the living room couch.
“Can I set these down somewhere? I don’t want to track snow through your house.” I glance down at my boots and back up to Chloe.
“I’ll take them.” She reaches for the bags, and our fingers brush as she takes them. If I thought I felt warmth earlier, this is heat, like an electrical spark.
Her eyes fly to mine, recognition flashing in them. She turns away and all but runs in the opposite direction as I bend over to loosen the strings on my boots so I can toe them off.
Chloe’s space is colorful and well-crafted. Carefully curated walls showcase photos of her and Phoebe, but mostly Phoebe. It’s small but cozy. Warm.
I move quietly in the direction she’s gone and find the kitchen easily. Her back is turned when I come in, the gentle scrape of a wooden spoon against the metal pan a quiet melody in the air as she stirs something on the stove. The scent of Italian herbs and garlic bread reminds me that I’m starving, and my stomach growls appreciatively.
“I’m sorry for snapping like that. I know you weren’t trying to do anything but be helpful. It’s just been a long day. I’ve been hunting for a new rental all day long, but it’s hard to figure out a budget when you’re not sure what your income will be.” She turns around and motions to a couple of pots steaming on the stovetop. “We’re just about to sit down and eat some spaghetti. Would you like to join us?”
“I’m not trying to intrude on your dinner. I just wanted to bring some things by.”
Her face softens.
“You’re not intruding if I invite you to stay. And let’s be honest, I’d have to be heartless to kick you out after you brought me pretty plants and whatever mystery treats are hiding in those bags.” She saunters to the kitchen island, eyes bright as she tries to sneak a peek at what I’ve brought.
“I actually brought cookie supplies. For Phoebe,” I explain.
Her head snaps up. I can’t tell if the wide eyes and open mouth are shock or anger.
“You did what?”
Still not helpful, and again, I worry I’ve overstepped.
“I brought cookie supplies for Phoebe,” I repeat, a little slower and with caution.
She raises her hands to her mouth, her face crumpling.
Oh no, I’ve gone and done it now.
“Wait, Chloe, was that?—”
She steps away from me, her back pressed against the counter. She cocoons into herself, arms wrapped and head dropped.
Outside, a tree branch taps gently against the window behind her, too deliberate for the weather. Too soft for ghosts. It’s been a long time since Storywood has been so intent on nudging me, but I make up my mind that I’ll try to follow the cues. I’m doing pretty rotten on my own.
I only hesitate for half a second before I cross the room and stop right in front of her.
“Chloe, I—” I’m itching to offer some form of physical reassurance. “Okay?” I ask, holding up my hands.
