Their palms connect in what should be a simple greeting. Mom stares at their joined hands with reverent wonder for a good minute before she releases his hand.
Jake and Logan shake hands next, their grip easy and solid. “Never thought I’d shake hands with someone famous,” Jake admits, and his genuine grin blows straight through any attempt at playing it cool.
Turning to Maisie, I scan the space behind her. “Where’s Claire? I thought you were supposed to come together.”
Maisie’s shoulders drop slightly. “She’s at the hospital. Her grandma isn’t doing good. Claire just got word this afternoon.”
My heart sinks at the news. “We should go check up on her once we move into our new home.”
The rest of the evening is a symphony of laughter and sweaty labor. We haul cardboard fortresses, wrestle furniture through doorways, and weave stories between heavy breaths as the house gradually transforms around us. Dad offers Jake unsolicited blueprints for the perfect garage arrangement, while Mom claims the kitchen as her organizational kingdom. My gaze drifts repeatedly to Logan and Jake, who seem to be falling into an easy rhythm of conversation.
I wander toward the balcony where they stand shoulder to shoulder.
“How do you like your steak?” Jake asks.
Logan’s eyes light up. “Medium rare—it’s the best way to eat it.”
“Same. When we settle in, come on by and we can fire up the grill,” Jake offers, his invitation hanging comfortably in the evening air.
A genuine smile crosses Logan’s face. “Sounds good to me.”
Their conversation drifts toward safer male territory. “Who do you think will win—Seahawks or Patriots?” Jake asks.
“I always bet on the underdog,” Logan says. “I got twenty on the Patriots.”
Jake extends his hand decisively. “You’re on.” They shake on it, both grinning like old friends who just discovered they’re on the same team.
Nudging Maisie with my elbow, I tilt my head toward the men. “Look at those two. This could be the start of a budding friendship.”
Maisie’s lips curve upward. “Good. Logan doesn’t have any real guy friends. A guys' night with steak and football would be good for him.”
Two hours later, with everyone gone, Jake and I stand alone in the middle of the living room. The house breathes around us, filled with partially unpacked boxes and scattered belongings.
Kneeling, I sift through a cardboard treasure chest filled with photos and mementos—some untouched since I sealed them away before New York, when everything between us was a question mark with no answer in sight.
I begin hanging our history on the walls—snapshots from high school with terrible haircuts, candid moments when we thought we knew everything, and precious milestones that built the foundation of us. Each frame locks another piece of our story into place.
As I hold up a framed prom photo—Jake drowning slightly in his rented suit, me wrapped in a sparkly green monstrosity—his footsteps sound across the hardwood behind me. His expression glows as he extends his palm, revealing a small, crumpled paper.
“Don’t forget about this,” he says.
Unfolding it carefully, my eyes widen. “No way.” The angry note demanding he move his bike and sofa from the hallway stares back at me. “You kept this?”
Jake’s shoulders lift in a casual shrug. “I knew it was you from the moment I read it. Recognized your cursive handwriting instantly. I couldn’t focus on work at all that day.”
Laughter escapes me as I throw my arms around his neck. “You sentimental softie.”
His answering chuckle vibrates against my chest as his arms encircle me. “What can I say? Some things are worth holding on to.”
We pull back just enough to take in the room, now lined with little fragments of our shared past. Photos that caught us growing up, mementos that hold our inside jokes like they’re priceless artifacts, tangible proof that our journey twisted and detoured and tried to shake us loose but still brought us here. To this house. To this moment.
It’s all here in one place.
Us.
THE END
