You moved through curated versions of that life, kitchens that suggested you cooked because you wanted to, bedrooms where no one ever lost their place in a book, living rooms arranged with a confidence that implied every decision had already been made and settled.
I moved through it without a basket or a plan, letting the layout carry me instead of trying to direct it.
I was somewhere between a living room setup that suggested healthy communication and a dining space that implied people ate at the same time every night when I saw him. He wasn’t wandering. That was the first thing I noticed.
Deion stood in front of two chairs with a measuring tape in his hand and a folded sheet of paper poking out of his back pocket. He studied the chair like it had already failed a test it didn’t know it was taking.
“The seat depth is off,” I said.
He turned, recalibrating quickly, his eyes moving over me once like he was placing me in the room before responding. “What are you doing here?”
“Managing my emotions through furniture,” I said, stepping up beside him. “What’s wrong with it?”
“I didn’t say anything was wrong with it.” He shifted his weight slightly, one hand coming up to his beard, not quite scratching, just resting there like the thought was still forming.
I glanced at the paper he pulled from his back pocket, then at the measuring tape still looped in his hand. “You’re measuring.”
“I need it to fit,” he said simply.
“You’re serious,” I said, before I could decide if I was going to say it out loud.
He didn’t answer that directly. His hand dropped from his beard, attention shifting back to the chair like that was the part that mattered. “It’s time.”
That was all he gave me, but it was enough.
“You didn’t have to say anything was wrong,” I said, lowering myself into the chair and then immediately standing again. “You’re evaluating it like it disappointed you.”
I moved to a third option he hadn’t touched, testing it properly this time, feet planted, back against the frame, letting the chair settle before I decided anything about it.
“This one.”
“I wasn’t looking at that one.” His head tilted just a fraction, attention shifting without resistance.
“I can tell.”
I adjusted slightly, paying attention to where the chair held and where it gave.
“You don’t want something that swallows a person,” I said, glancing at him. “You’re going to have kids in here who don’t know if they want to stay yet. If the chair makes the decision for them, they’re gone.”
I leaned back again, testing the balance, then nodded once. “This one lets them decide.”
He stepped in and sat, not easing into it but settling like he was placing someone there and checking the fit. His hand came back to his beard briefly, eyes moving across the frame, the angles, the spacing.
“Yeah,” he said after a second, quieter now, like he had finished the thought internally. “Okay.”
I moved to stand behind the chair, peeking over his shoulder at his notes, noticed he’d jotted downtwo chairs for listening station, and made an executive decision. “Get four.”
He looked up at me, that brief pause again before he spoke. “Why four?”
“Because Jerome is eventually going to break one,” I said, folding my arms. “You know how he is and I’m not interested in watching you pretend to be surprised when it happens.”
He held my gaze for a second, that pause again like he was deciding whether to argue or accept it.
“Jerome has never broken a chair,” he said, calm but unconvinced.
“Jerome hasn’t met this chair yet,” I said.
The corner of his mouth moved before he could stop it.
