"Charlotte," I finally managed. "You didn't have to?—"
"I know." She lifted the dish slightly. "But I was in the neighborhood, and I remembered you probably haven't eaten anything that didn't come from a microwave in weeks. So." She raised an eyebrow. "Are you going to invite me in, or should I just stand here holding lukewarm pasta until my arms give out?"
The guilt hit me like a wave. I'd ignored her for a week. Left her standing in a parking lot with nothing but a vague promise I hadn't kept. And here she was, bearing a casserole like some kind of small-town saint.
I should send her away. Every instinct screamed it. Protect her. Protect yourself. Don't let her see what you've become.
But I was so tired. And she was smiling. And the loneliness of the past week really did tear me down like a curse.
"Yeah," I said, stepping back. "Sorry. Come in."
She stepped into the foyer, and I watched her gaze sweep across the cardboard towers filling the living room. Her expression didn't change, but I saw her cataloguing: the dust, the chaos, the evidence of three months of paralysis.
"Wow," she said mildly. "You really went all out with the unpacking."
"It's a process."
"Mmm. A three-month process, from what I’ve heard." She set the casserole on the hall table and turned to face me, hands on her hips. "Miles. This is a lot of boxes."
"Astute observation. Very perceptive."
"Don't get smart with me. I'm holding your dinner hostage." She peered into the nearest open box. "Is this all your parents' stuff?"
"Most of it. Some from the attic, some from closets. I pulled it all down with the intention of sorting through it."
"And then?"
"And then I... didn't."
Charlotte nodded slowly, as if this confirmed something she'd suspected. "You need help."
"I'm managing."
"You're drowning." She said it without judgment, just stating a fact. "Let me help. One hour. A few boxes. It'll make you feel better."
Before I could argue, she'd already moved into the living room, pulling a stack of old sweaters from the nearest box. "Donate, keep, or toss?"
I stood frozen for a moment, caught between the urge to protest and the strange relief of having someone else make decisions. "Donate," I finally said.
"Good." She set them aside in what was apparently now a donation pile. "See? Not so hard. We'll have this place livable in no time."
"I wouldn't go that far."
"I absolutely would. I'm an optimist. It's a character flaw." She held up a truly hideous ceramic owl, its eyes bulging in perpetual surprise. "Please tell me this isn't a family heirloom."
"My grandmother's. She collected them."
"She collected nightmare fuel?"
There it was, her natural skill to make me laugh. If I wasn’t drowning in dread, I would’ve. "She had eclectic taste. There are about forty more in the attic."
"Forty." Charlotte's expression was perfectly horrified. "Miles. That's not a collection. That's an infestation."
"You should see the frog figurines."
"There are frog figurines?"
"A whole battalion. They have little top hats."
