The old house.
I haven't been back there in over a year. Couldn't stomach it after the wedding, couldn't handle walking through rooms that still smelled like her vanilla body wash and coffee. I'd locked the door, left everything exactly as it was the day she left, and tried to pretend it didn't exist.
"It's still there," Stellan says quietly. "Still locked up. Still full of her things."
"I know."
"So move back." He says it like it's obvious, like the solution's been sitting there waiting for me to notice it. "Pack up whatever you actually want from this mausoleum and go back to the place that felt like home."
"With all her stuff still there?" The thought makes my chest hurt. "That's pathetic."
"You know what's pathetic?" Stellan turns to look at me directly. "Spending eight years dying in progressively bigger houses because you're too stubborn to admit you never stopped loving her. At least the old place has good memories."
He's right. God, I hate that he's right.
The old house in Chestnut Hill with its reasonable size and lived-in kitchen and bedroom that still has her hair tie on the nightstand. The place where I learned to cook for her, where she'd curl up on the couch with her textbooks, where we built something real before I let my uncle destroy it.
"Call the guys," I hear myself say. "I want to move today."
It takes lesstime to pack up my actual belongings than it did to remove Bianca's.
Turns out I don't own much. Clothes mostly—suits and shirts and shoes that fill three garment bags and two boxes. My laptop, some files I keep at home, a watch my father gave me before he died. Everything else in this house belongs to the house itself or to Bianca's expensive taste.
Jamie and Vincent show up with a truck at two. They don't ask questions, just start loading what I point to while Stellan coordinates like he's running a military operation.
"Kitchen stuff?" Jamie asks, gesturing to the pristine cookware I've barely touched since moving in.
"Leave it." I'm packing books in my office—the few I've actually read, the ones that aren't just for show. "Everything in the kitchen stays."
"You sure? Some of this is nice."
"I have kitchen stuff at the old place." Better stuff. Pans I actually seasoned, knives I know how to use, the cast iron skillet I learned to cook with. "This is all just... expensive."
Vincent appears in the doorway. "What about the bedroom?"
"Clothes and the nightstand. Everything else stays." I close a box, tape it shut harder than necessary. "The bed, the furniture, all of it. I don't want anything that was in that room."
Because Bianca might not have slept in my bed, but she existed in that space. Her perfume probably clings to the air, her presence contaminated everything. I'd rather sleep on the floor in the old house than bring any of that with me.
By four, we're done.
I do one last walk-through while the guys load the truck. Room by room, making sure I'm not leaving anything that matters. The formal dining room with its unused china—don't care. The living room with its decorator-chosen furniture—don't care. The library with its empty shelves—never cared.
The master bedroom I used. My closet, now empty except for Bianca's things in her section. The bathroom that still smells like her expensive products. The walk-in closet where my suits used to hang in perfect rows.
I close that door and don't look back.
Stellan's waiting by the front entrance when I come downstairs.
"That everything?"
"Yeah." I pull the keys from my pocket, look at them for a long moment. "I assume you can handle listing this place?"
"Already called a realtor I trust. She'll be here tomorrow to do the assessment." He plucks the keys from my hand. "I'll deal with the showings, the paperwork, all of it. You just sign where I tell you."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it. Seriously—don't. I have a reputation as a heartless bastard to maintain." But he's smiling slightly, that rare expression that says he's genuinely pleased about something.
