“All done in the spare room!” I call to Wes, shoving the last box into a corner of Mom’s makeshift office. He’s been wrangling the garage all morning, the larger of the two messes.
“Almost done in here!” he shouts back.
I sink to the floor, back against the box, chest rising with a deep breath. Surprisingly, I feel content. Wes has made this whole process less troublesome, more… satisfying I daresay? Simple Sunday pleasures—coffee, breakfast, a spot of hard work—feel gratifying in this beautiful house. It’s not even the house. It’s Wes. He’s the kind of guy who turns the mundane into fun: sourcing fresh local food for balcony meals back in Seattle, gifting me flowers at work—making my students gawk in embarrassing glee.“Ms. Bly’s in love! Ms. Bly has a boyfriend!”They ooh and aah. He adds sparks to regular days. Even terribly glum ones: packing up your dead mother’s house.
We met through a coworker last year. It was a whirlwind courtship that never ended—only exploded. This weekend has proven the obvious: Wes isthe one. I giggle like a schoolgirl and fix my red ponytail as he enters the house.
He barely crosses the office doorframe, leaning against it with a smile. “That garage looked like a war zone. But I finished!” He releases a rewarding breath. “Wanna tackle the books and living room next?”
The guy doesn’t stop being perfect.
Ignoring his question, I say, “We should move in together.” I fold my legs into a pretzel and stare up at him with a soft grin. “It’s been really nice having you around these past few days. I don’t want it to end.” I purse my lips in thought. “Well, I do. I want to get out of here. But you know what I mean.”
Wes sits on the floor in front of me, shoving the tape gun out of the way to make room for his crossed legs. Our knees touch.
“I would love that,” he says, grinning like it’s been on his mind. “Mine or yours?”
I’ve never lived with a boyfriend before, so I really think about it. My past relationships were casual, short-lived, never too serious. My apartment is nice enough: chic, walkable to shops and my favorite French bakery, close to the wine bar Imogen works at. But the thought of starting fresh with Wes feels like home in itself. Better than pain au chocolat at my fingertips. Plus, my apartment is small, old. Good for one person.
“Obviously yours,” I tell him. “Your place is better.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Yeah? How so?”
I shrug, smiling. “Well, for one, your living room doesn’t feel like you’re balancing on top of the furniture to walk from the couch to the kitchen. And the light! Huge windows, big skylights. Romantic balcony dinners on your deck. You know I love those.”
“Yeah, but my place is farther from your work,” he points out. “How about we both move. Get a house somewhere.” He leans in, playful, nipping at my neck. It tickles a laugh out of me.
“I’m open to anything. As long as I get to be with you,” I say, planting a soft kiss across his lips. When we pull apart, I stare at the light freckles across his nose, the warmth in his olive skin.
A car door clicks in the distance, and I figure Imogen is finally back from whatever has been keeping her out of the house allmorning. Wes and I stretch into a tight embrace, appreciating a final quiet moment together.
“We’ll lock down the plans when you’re done here,” Wes says. Pulling me off the floor, he kisses me again and walks into the hallway. “I’ll load the garage trash outside and meet you in the living room to do books? I just need a few!”
The security system notes the front door opening and I hear Imogen rush in, slamming the door behind her. I can tell from over here that she’s flustered. Just like that, the pocket of our quiet little bubble breaks. Releasing a deep breath, I move to find her.
“Hey, what’s going on?” I ask, adjusting the waistband of my leggings. “Where have you been?”
She blows air into her cheeks, slipping her boots off with athunkby the shoe rack. “Sorry. I needed a break. I went down to the police station to ask about yesterday. I had some lunch…”
“No worries,” I say, and I mean it. I know she deserves a few hours off. “You’ve been running yourself ragged… Did the police find anything?”
Imogen shakes her head. “Nope. Shockingly uneventful,” she says, weaving toward the living room. She rifles through the armoire, opening drawers and cabinets like she’s hunting for buried treasure.
“What are you looking for? Wes and I are about to start boxing up those shelves,” I say, tilting my head.
She finally stumbles upon a black neoprene case, which she shakes with wide eyes and a cracked smile—her version of anaha!moment.
I watch her stroll to the lakefront window and remove an old pair of binoculars, pressing them to her eyes.
“Not this again,” I scoff, sinking into Mom’s fluffy cream sofa. She positions herself the same way she often did growing up—assuming her classic stance in the chair by the window, spying on the lake.
“Do you remember Tim?” she asks, a worried look in her eye. “The fake name I made for the guy in the black house across the lake?”
“The serial killer? Of course,” I joke, recalling Imogen’s childlike belief that he was one. She loved playing the role of Lake Blair’s Nancy Drew. If there was a mystery, she intended to solve it.Intendedbeing the key word.
She snaps a straight face. “Don’t call him that. He freaks me out.”
I make a face, looping my ginger hair into a fresh high ponytail. “What are you talking about? Do you two hang out now?” I tease. “He’s a little old for you.”
