She shuffles away toward an en suite bathroom, explaining how to turn the shower on, opening the closets, displaying the perfumed lining of each drawer, and Gen doesn’t just play along—she seems genuinely interested.
“Anders has your stuff down the hall,” my mom tells me, and I glance at Gen the second she glances at me. “And we’re having lunch at the Club, so please be ready in an hour.” She all but skips out of the room, tapping a gentle hand on my shoulder before leaving.
“Anders?” Gen breaks the silence and the tension from the room situation, and I can’t help but chuckle.
“I think she only hired him because that is actually his name.”
“No,” she gasps, actually shocked. “She’s kind of wonderful.”
“She is,” I say, no longer interested in talking about my mother, because all I can think about is when I’m going to get any time alone with this girl. My hands are fisted in the front pocket of my grey sweatsuit as I take her in, rolling my lips together as I take her in. Deep purple half zip that matches the sweats and leaves the smallest sliver of skin exposed. Hair pulled up, her long curls swinging behind her. Standing there with her hip pushed slightly out, her hands resting on her waist as her lips flicker at my attention.
“Separate rooms?” she asks like it’s a joke, but I know she’s serious.
“Is that going to be a problem?” I slowly move toward her.
“I guess it’s fine.” Just as I reach her she begins to walk out of the room, calling over her shoulder. “That doesn’t mean you get out of showing me your childhood bedroom.”
I watch her discern which room is mine by the worn name plates that hang from thumbtacks on the two furthest doors. Then she opens the door and freezes, something about the dark, forest green shiplapped wall that sports a display case with my high school jersey giving her pause. My bed stands in the middle of the wall, the deep green duvet that matches the wall contrasting with crisp white linens and pillows, my multicolored quilt neatly tucked at the foot of it. One wall is really just a built-in bookcase, littered with more trophies and awards than actual books. The same desk that was here when I moved in, made from the same oak as the bed frame, sits in frontof the open casement window that is open every time I fly in.
I watch her downloading all of this, taking her time with these small details, and desire lances through me like a hot firework streamer—searing and hard to ignore.
“The shiplap was never my idea,” I whispers against her ear, softly bracing her hip as I nudge her inside, feeling her shiver beneath my touch.
She releases a breath that morphs into this refreshing burst of laughter.
“Let me guess—it was Sloane’s?”
“She went through a hard core interior design phase.”
Her hands gravitate to the quilt on the bed, tracing the patches of t-shirts my mom wove together throughout the years. One patch features a cartoon sun, the phrase “Everton Sunshines” in large Comic Sans beneath it. Another is cut from one of my MVP shirts—I think my sophomore year. Another from a Fielder Foods youth food program t-shirt. Her gaze snags on the Chicago one I brought with me from my uncle’s house, one of the only possessions I had back then.
“She makes quilts from all our commemorative stuff over the years, gives them to us when we graduate,” I explain, warmth and melancholy settling in my chest at the sight.
“Why didn’t you take it with you?”
“Felt like bringing the past with me. I wanted to start fresh.”
“But this is so…” she pauses. “Cozy. Looking at this feels like an endless hug.”
“It is,” I laugh. “And when I’m here, I get to feel it. But I didn’t want to bring my past when I left.”
She crosses the room, running her finger along thebookcase like she might find dust there. She doesn’t know Evie Fielder, yet.
“How many of these did youactuallyread?” she asks, looking over her shoulder.
“All of them. Surprised?” I smirk at her, once again distracted by the way her teeth tug at her bottom lip.
“A little,” she grins, her eyes dancing with amusement.
“I’m not saying I’m a reader, but I’ve been known to dabble.”
“What’s your favorite book then?”
“The Great Gatsby.” She rolls her eyes in mock disdain. “Or…The Count of Monte Cristo.”
“You read that?” Her brows shoot up in disbelief.
“Between the movie and the spark notes, it feels like I did,” I say, grinning.
