I'm not sure how to exist in this space without leaving fingerprints or smudges or some evidence that I'm human. I imagine spilling a single drop of paint on these floors and have to inhale slowly through my nose.
Seamus hovers in the doorway, looking equally uncertain about what happens next.
***
After takeout that neither of us finishes, we sit at opposite ends of his dining table with our ERS folders spread between us.
I've been thumbing through my schedule of appearances, public statements, and social media guidelines when Seamus clears his throat.
"Tell me more about your plans for the storefront," he says, surprising me with what seems like genuine interest.
"It's going to be a children's art and literacy center," I explain, unable to keep the enthusiasm from my voice.
"Not just a place to buy books, but a community space where kids can create and read and feel like they belong. I want to host author visits, illustration workshops, and after-school programs—especially for children from underfunded schools."
As I speak, I can picture it all so clearly: walls lined with colorful books, tables covered in art supplies, comfortable reading nooks, and most importantly, children sprawled everywhere, making messes and making magic.
Seamus nods, his expression thoughtful. "And the building itself—what makes it so special?"
His tone isn't dismissive, but I can't help feeling defensive.
To his company, that storefront is just square footage and potential profit; to me, it's history and heart and possibility.
I tell him about the original woodwork, the vintage light fixtures, the century-old tile floors, and how places with character are disappearing from our city.
When I finish, he studies me.
"You've put a lot of thought into this," he says finally, and I can't tell if he's impressed or calculating how to use this information against me.
The evening stretches awkwardly as we orbit each other like cautious planets.
I unpack my few belongings, placing my sketchbooks on the desk and hanging my clothes in a closet designed to hold twenty times what I own.
In the bathroom, I stare at my reflection in the enormous mirror, trying to recognize myself in this surreal setting.
I hear Seamus moving around in the kitchen, the soft clink of a glass, the opening and closing of the refrigerator.
When I emerge from my room to get water, he's sitting at the kitchen island with his laptop open, reading glasses perched on his nose. He looks up when I enter, and for a moment, we just stare at each other, neither sure of the proper protocol.
"I usually work until about midnight," he offers, as if explaining his habits to a roommate. "The apartment can be quiet. I hope that won't bother you."
I assure him it won't, though the truth is that silence has always made me uneasy. I prefer the background noise of life: music, conversation, even traffic sounds from an open window.
Back in my room, I try to settle in, but the bed is too big, too perfect, too unfamiliar. I curl onto one side, making myself small against the vast expanse of mattress.
I pick up my phone to check the time and see an email notification from my pen pal.
The familiar name "Shay" is like finding an old friend in a crowd of strangers. I fall asleep with the email glowing on my screen.
***
Morning light streams through my new windows. For a disorienting moment, I don't remember where I am. Then it all rushes back—the wedding, the elevator ride, the new space.
I'm married. I'm living in a billionaire's penthouse.
I'm contemplating whether I should venture out to the kitchen or wait until Seamus leaves for work when my phone buzzes with a text.
It's from Tessa at ERS:
