XI
We pause on the landing of my stoop as I dig around my bag for my keys. Behind me, I sense Reid’s gaze sweep over me. I can’t seem to get my hands to work. Or my eyes.
“You sure you want more alcohol?” Reid jokes.
“This is not an alcohol problem,” I say. I tear open my bag and stick my face halfway into it, attempting to decode the shapeless mass of objects inside. “This is a reading-glasses problem. They seem to be the one object I didn’t put in here.”
Reid laughs, low in his chest. “Oh, there are glasses now? Hot.”
I turn and raise an eyebrow at him. “Noted.”
I finally find the keys and open the door. Reid follows me into the foyer, where I put my bag down on the vintage oak console. I sense him silently taking in the space: the celadon walls, the layered rugs in the living room, the black-and-white-checkered floors in the kitchen, and the antique, fluted green-glass chandelier hanging above us.
“This is a special place,” he says. “It’s very Lili.”
“There’s a lot of history here. And not all of it strictly mine. So I’ll take that as a win.”
I give him the CliffsNotes version of how I came to own this place: With immense foresight, my parents bought the Greek Revival townhouse in 1983, when it was worth about one-sixtieth of what it is now. They let it sit in its partially dilapidated state until fifteen years later, when they offered it to James and me as a wedding gift. We moved in and fixed it up.
Over the past twenty years, I’ve been nudged to sell by plenty of piratical realtors, but I’m never going to do it. This is where I created my first home, even if that was with James. This is where we brought Emme home from the hospital, where we experienced all her firsts together. And after James moved out, this is where Emme and I made another home together, just the two of us. This is my family’s legacy.
Now I lead Reid toward the back of the house into the kitchen, which looks out onto the small garden. I’m proud of this place, but with Reid here, I can’t help but notice all the things I keep meaning to take care of and putting off—weeding, finally Googling how to remove the stain Emme’s blue nail polish left on the marble counter a year ago. I wonder what Reid’s house looks like; I can’t imagine it isn’t orderly and calm, like him.
He grabs a stool at the island while I pull out a bottle of champagne from the fridge. It’s probably too expensive for the occasion, left over from the small New Year’s Eve party I hosted months ago, but if not now, when?
There’s a catalog for an outdoor clothing companysitting on the counter. Reid drags it toward him and starts absentmindedly flipping through it.
“Flute or coupe?” I move to the cabinet above the sink.
“Either.” In the catalog, Reid points at a complicated-looking jacket with about ten thousand pockets and a utility belt hanging off the hem. “You’d look good in this.”
“Reading glasses and performance wear, huh? I see your tastes have evolved.”
“My taste is for the woman wearing the reading glasses and performance wear.”
Our gazes lock. A current hums between us, low and steady, but ready to crest with the barest friction. His eyes are darker now, looking at me like I’m something he’s been thinking about for days. Years.
My body responds before my mind can intervene—a buzz in my chest that flutters down to my hands. They itch to feel the fine layer of stubble on his jaw, the softness of his hair.
I should say something to acknowledge this frisson between us.
Instead, I break eye contact and turn toward the sink, busying myself with rinsing out the flute glasses, which have collected a shimmer of dust. The water runs too hot, but I don’t adjust it, letting the sting of it ground me back into my body, tug me away from the fantasy.
Still, I feel him watching, his gaze landing between my shoulder blades.
“I don’t know how this place got my address, but they’vebeen shaming me with these catalogs for years.” I force my voice into an even tenor and turn back to the island, drying off the glasses. “I’ve never gone camping in my life.”
Reid looks at me in mock horror. “Never? Not even a cabin in the woods?”
“That sounds like my personal nightmare.”
“I hate to add to the shaming, but I think you’re missing out. The quiet, the calm... it’s really special. I started taking Gracie out to Big Bear from the time she was three. By six, she was catching fish and starting fires herself.”
I let that sit for a minute, waiting for him to go on. I notice that he saidI, notwe. I know I won’t be able to focus until he shares the rest of this story.
“Just the two of you?”
He nods. “Just us.”
