Page 116 of Enzo

I tried to make conversation, but she only gave me short answers. Maybe she’s exhausted, but something tells me it’s more than that.

That she doesn’t want me in her space.

The SUV comes to a stop outside a quiet street. Molly doesn’t have much luggage. Just the one rucksack she carried, and I gave her a small trolley bag for the clothes—disguises included—that my assistant ordered. I roll both our trolley bags and follow her in.

“This is my humble abode.” She puts her key into the lock and pushes the door open, then walks inside. She turns around. “I have to warn you—my place is ... chaotic.” She makes a face like she's in pain.

But it’s the first sign of her returning to the Molly I know.

“It’s lived in,” I offer, following her inside. I'm expecting chaos but as I slowly survey everything, it’s not.

She yawns then turns the light on. I set our luggage to one side and look around. What I see is a homey, comfy place which is lived in, just as I assumed. I catch sight of a purple sneaker lying on its side under a chair. A cardigan hangs over a sofa and an oddly misshapen handmade mug sits beside a stack of children's story books. A small table sits next to a two-seater couch with a bright red throw over it.

An assortment of plants in different colored and different sized plant pots are arranged along the windowsill.

I raise my brow. “You look like you left in a hurry.” It looks like she literally dropped everything and raced out, but I don’t say that to her.

“I … uh … I didn’t, actually … I’ll quickly tidy up.” She moves around at speed, but she’s not making anything tidy. She’s simply rearranging everything.

I move towards her, and take her hands in mine to stop her. I can’t tell if it’s the adrenaline, the over tiredness, or if it’s me being in her space.

“It’s late. You don’t have to do this now,” I tell her.

She yawns. “I can see the stress on your face. You line up everything. Even your pens and pencils.”

This is true. It would explain her being stressed about me being here. That’s the last thing I wanted to do—pile more worry on her.

“Please don’t worry about it,” I plead. “You don’t have to tidy up to impress me.”

“I’m not trying to impress you.” But her voice has a wobble in it. I glance at my watch. It’s two in the morning. No wonder.

“It’s late. You should get some rest. Leave this. It doesn’t matter. I promise not to judge you.”

“It’s a mess, I know.” She watches me as I look around her apartment again.

“This isn't messy,” I say, trying to sound convincing as my eyes go to the laundry drying on a rack near the window.

Everything is loved and old and homely and used and lived in. It’s nothing like mine. My place is immaculate. Rio says it’s museum-like. It's almost untouched. Everything is organized and in order. It looks uninhabited, whereas Molly’s apartment breathes. It's a living microcosm of something.

I find myself wondering how anybody could be this comfortable with such a mess. Though it’s not really a mess, it is—as Molly would say—organized chaos.

“How do you ever … find anything.”

She guffaws loudly. “I don't. I just wait until it finds me.”

This makes me laugh out loud. What a different way of looking at things. I follow her into the kitchen.

“Would you like some tea or something?” she asks over her shoulder as she heads for the refrigerator. “Coconut water?” She holds the carton in her hand. “Brimming with electrolytes.”

“Electrolytes?”

“We all need electrolytes otherwise our brains shrivel.”

I almost spit out my drink. “That's not it.”

“Maybe it’s our muscles.”

I don't even bother to correct her.