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She forgot to breathe. For a moment, it felt like she’d stepped into a whirlpool.

“I can’t even begin to explain what a nightmare the past week has been, Molly,” he said, and she jolted at the sound of her first name coming from his mouth. She was Graham. Or Charity Case. Or whatever other insult du jour had his attention. He continued, “But that? God, that right there almost felt like hope. The sofa’s story is . . . illustrious. Definitely one for another time.”

“Can I be there for it?” Roy asked, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, still chuckling. “Please, can I be there for it? Alannah too? We could send invitations. Hell, call in the whole Friday night gang. We could all use the laugh.”

“Fuck off, Waters,” Bishop said. Somehow it was the nicest insult she’d ever heard him hurl.

Molly stood there, hands still on her hips, half expecting one of them to explain. When neither did, she turned and stepped further into the home that was meant to be hers.

But everywhere she looked she saw Bishop. Crammed into the small living room was the enormous royal-blue brocade sofa; not one but two antique coffee tables wedged side by side; a couple of additional ornate end tables; a cozy-looking leather armchair; and another, much less comfortable-looking leather wingback. It was all stuffy to the point of being a little bit nauseating.

The only parts of herself she saw in the crowded room were the hundreds of books stacked onto every horizontal surface and overflowing from the built-in bookcases lining the far wall. That sort of maximalism was familiar: her own brand of indulgence just this side of a hoarding problem. Her books were putting in good work balancing out Bishop’s bad taste in antique furniture.

“We”—she cringed at the plural pronoun—“have, um, interesting taste. It’s a bit . . . crowded in here.”

Roy nearly choked, and Bishop shot him a dark look.

“Sorry,” Roy said. “I don’t really know if I should laugh or cry. I think I’m coping with laughter.”

Bishop exhaled, the sharp lines of his face softening by stages: sadness and confusion and affection and concern. “We have a lot of books and not enough room for them.” From the way his expression twisted faintly as he spoke, it looked like the plural pronoun gave him grief too.

“And all the furniture?” she asked.

“We also have a lot of that.” He didn’t elaborate.

Silence lapsed. Molly distracted herself by peering into the adjacent kitchen. Bishop stood very still, watching her like she might bolt at any moment.

Roy broke the tension. “I should probably get going,” he said. “Alannah’s outnumbered at home.”

Ignoring what could have only been a look of abject horror on Molly’s face, Roy pulled her into a tight hug. “You’ll be fine, Molly,” he whispered before releasing her. “Call if you need anything.”

All too soon, he’d retreated out the front door and left Molly alone with Aster Bishop. A man meant to be her husband.

He let out a long breath.

“I—can I give you a tour?” he asked.

The tour was as uncomfortable as it was unnerving. Molly didn’t know how to interact with Bishop in a way that didn’t involve, at the very least, thinly veiled hostility. With Roy gone, she half expected him to insult her sweater and remind her of the embarrassingly wide margin by which he defeated her in the race for class presidency. To which she would have reminded him how her college acceptance letter hadn’t involved a waitlist. These conflicts had once felt so huge, so all-consuming. Now they seemed petty and inconsequential when faced with everything else.

But Bishop was perfectly cordial, granting her ample space as he walked her through the kitchen, showing her where things were before she had the chance to ask. He pointed out the shelf dedicated to her caffeine addiction, where her stash of novelty mugs lived, and the hidden spot where her oft–mooned over but rarely used cookbook collection had been relegated. Alannah gave her a new one every year for Christmas.

He also pointed out a small ceramic bowl of his favorite candies, informing her with a half-serious expression that she was not permitted to have any. Like she wanted any of his stupid candies anyway.

“And these are Pawntès’s treats,” he said, gesturing to a small jar on the counter.

Molly’s relief was immediate and immense. “He’s here?” she asked, the first words she’d spoken since Roy left. She felt breathless. She hadn’t had the nerve to ask about her beloved cat, irrationally worried a lack of mention from her friends had meant the worst. Pawntès had already been getting old six years ago.

Molly had to look away when Bishop smiled, the same open, dimpled smile as before.

“I closed him in the bedroom when Roy said you were coming over. I didn’t want to overwhelm you.”

“Where?”

“This way,” he said, walking her down the short hallway between the living room and the kitchen. He gestured to a door on the left. “That’s the bathroom.” He pointed to another door on the right. “That’s . . . our spare room.”

He paused like he might go on, but didn’t, steeping Molly in anticipation.

She eyed the door handle, and then Bishop’s face. His expression was shuttered, almost cold. Curiosity prickled beneath her skin, but she was much more interested in her cat than trying to pry information from the man in front of her. “Pawntès?”