Finish.
Like he’s promising there will be a later.
ChapterThirty-Eight
Vesper
I show up when the movers are basically packing up their last roll of tape, which is honestly a blessing, because if they’d caught me earlier, I would’ve become that person.
You know the one.The one who says,What if we move that chair two inches to the left ...no, wait—three to the right ...actually back to the left, but like ...emotionally?The one who pretends she’s being helpful while actively spiraling in real time and making strangers regret their career choices.
Now I get to skip straight to the part where the house is mine and I have nowhere left to hide.
By the time the last truck leaves and the gate clicks shut behind it, the sky beyond the tall windows has gone deep navy, the lake stretched out in a dark sheen, threaded with tiny lights from the far shore.Inside, lamps glow warm, too perfect, as if someone staged comfort and forgot to include the part where I’m supposed to believe I deserve it.The windows reflect us back—me in an oversized sweatshirt and bare feet, hair pulled up in a “don’t perceive me” messy bun—like we’re characters in a scene meant for an audience.
And my brain, because it hates peace, immediately goes:Cool.Where’s the camera?Where’s the exit?If I had to run, which door would jam first?
I hate that I do this now.Take something beautiful and turn it into a checklist of ways it could go wrong.
I stand in the kitchen.The counters are pristine.The sink looks like it has never witnessed a human error.There is space everywhere—space to breathe, space to move, space to feel everything I’ve been dodging for months—and I don’t know what to do with it.I’m used to small apartments and smaller expectations.I’m used to making myself fit.
A cardboard box sits by my foot with thick black marker screaming at me: VESPER’S — DON’T LOSE THIS.
I blink at it like it might bite.
Cally.Obviously.My boxes from New York had my address and a vague vibe of “this is none of your business.”This one has warning signs.
The things they brought from my studio are in what they’re calling “Vesper’s office,” which feels like both, a threat and a gift.A room with my name on it in a house that still feels like I’m trespassing.
I hate this place for being so ...much.
I’ve never lived in something so luxurious and big.
Dad had hockey-player money, but he spent it like it had a purpose.Mom’s camp.Schools.Donations with no press releases.Every house we lived in was a home, not a mansion.Vancouver.Hartford.North Carolina.San Jose.Then Portland, because he promised my mom he’d bring her back to where she was born when he retired, and Dad always keeps his promises.
This place doesn’t feel like a promise.It feels like a flex.
And still—fuck—it’s beautiful.
Which makes it worse, because beauty is how you get tricked into accepting things you swear you don’t want.I toured it.I said yes.I even smiled like a normal person who isn’t internally screaming.But touring a place and moving into it with two men who have rewired the meaning of mine are very different levels of reality.
We are actually moving in together.Together-together.Like grown-ups.Like people who aren’t terrified of being a family.
I open the first cabinet I find and pull out a mug, because of course Cally’s people already organized the kitchen.The mugs are lined up like they’re posing for a catalog, and I hate that my first thought is, If I put this back wrong, will the house reject me?
I fill it with water and take one sip.
Immediate regret.
My stomach has been acting like a petty little tyrant all day, turning its nose up at everything that isn’t bland, safe, and emotionally unavailable.I swallow hard, but it’s already too late.Heat rises fast, and my body makes the decision without consulting my pride.
I turn and—like the classy woman I am—puke into the sink.
The pristine, probably never-been-touched-by-human-mistake sink.
I brace myself on the counter, breathing through it, eyes watering, humiliation buzzing under my skin.Seven bathrooms in this mansion and I couldn’t find a single one in time, so congratulations to me.I’ve christened the luxury kitchen like a raccoon with anxiety.
A soft sound comes from behind me, footsteps barely there.
