“Send them in,” I tell him.
“The furniture’s here,” Meg says. “Let’s take the Drops out back so we don’t have to worry about them bolting for the door.”
We each grab a bowl, and the dogs follow us, noses up, prancing along behind us.
When we set the bowls down, their faces are buried in them before we can even stand.
As the rumble of the truck reaches us, Meg texts Remy. We both head for the front door.
When Remy and Erik return, the furniture is unloaded and placed in each room. My bedroom upstairs, with the balcony overlooking the backyard, is perfect. The bed faces the doors. I can already picture waking up there.
Erik hands me an oversized bag from a luxury bath shop. Inside are soaps, bath bombs, cleanser, toothpaste, plush towels, a thick bath mat.
Remy sets down his own bag. Toilet paper. A Keurig with pods. Sugar packets. He remembered how I take my coffee. He saw it once. I barely manage to swallow my internal sigh and hope I’m not giving him heart eyes.
Paper towels. Milk. Eggs. Bread. A toaster and a frying pan. Everything I forgot I’d need in the excitement of the house. He sets my car keys on the island.
“This is looking really good,” he says, eyeing the long dining table. “You’ve got a good eye. It fits the room.”
“It might be ambitious,” I admit. “Meg’s probably the only person I’ll ever have over. But the room was begging for a twelve-person table.”
“It works,” Remy says.
I hesitate. “I appreciate everything you’ve done, but I don’t understand why you’re both helping me.”
“You were my little Tianna.” He looks away. “I always wondered what happened to you. Wondered if I’d cross your path again. Hoped I would.”
He smiles faintly and looks back. “And then I did and didn’t know it, and I hurt you. Inadvertently, but hurt just the same.”
He steps closer and cups my cheek.
“I never want to be the cause of your pain,” he says quietly. “Only ever avenge it.”
A tear slips free. “I already have an avenger,” I say. “She’s very effective. I want my friend back.”
His thumb brushes the tear away. “You have him,” he says. “But he comes with a plus one.”
His smile turns wry. “Erik is my best friend. The brother of my heart.” He shrugs. “We pretty much come as a set.”
“How does he have my music?” I ask. “I know you said the Dark Angel, but how?”
I swallow. “He’s been giving voice to everything I’ve written and played for the last several years.”
A voice answers from behind us.
“It’s starting to make sense now. When we moved in, your music was always playing. I couldn’t get it out of my head.”
He pauses.
“It’s not the Dark Angel that’s my muse,” he says quietly. “It’s you.”
“For months,” he continues, “I’ve been chasing the music. It only stops when I see you.”
My breath rushes out of me. I stare at him, dumbfounded.
“I don’t understand,” I say. “I only ever played in my apartment.”
Meg comes in then, the dogs at her heels.
