Page 29

I make coffee here for the last time, the bag I smuggled past Mack and Nessa’s tea rotation still hidden behind the flour canister. Steam curls up in lazy ribbons, and I just … watch it. No legal pad. No phone within reach. My hands wrapped around the mug instead of a highlighter.

I can’t remember the last time I did this—sat with a cup of coffee instead of drinking it at something. A brief. A conversation. A drive.

Maybe it’s the crystals. Maybe it’s the tea. Whatever Nessa did to this house, the moving boxes and exposed studs around me look less like chaos and more like a beginning.

As I sip, I hear a knock on the door. Sam walks in at exactly 9:00 a.m. The Hugheses are incredibly punctual, something I love and respect deeply. He looks around the state of the duplex, barely acknowledging my existence, as I prefer it.

I reach into the cabinet and grab the only other item I left unpacked, a second coffee cup. I snicker at the over-the-top ridiculousness of the mug that Nessa gave me. I pour, hand it over, and get a grunt of thanks.

“So, couch, dining room table, and bed. Anything else that needs to be moved?” Sam jumps into the practical questions, no preamble.

“Not much. I have a few boxes, and my tools should probably be organized on one side of the garage.” I sigh at the thought. “I guess since it is a shared garage, I’ll have to move all my equipment to my side of the garage and park outside.” Damn, I hate parking outside. At least it shouldn’t be too cold for a little while longer.

Sam grunts in agreement as he sips his coffee. I turn slightly, angling my phone—click.

The group chat is going to have a field day with this.

He picked the mug.

I send a photo of Sam in dusty work boots and a worn tee, holding a hot pink, rhinestone-studded mug that says “Virgo: I noticed.”

Becca

I’m sorry??? Why is he hotter like this

Mack

“I noticed.” Did you, Sam? Really? You noticed the hot pink Virgo mug?

He still hasn’t read it.

Nessa

Do NOT tell him, I am putting this photo on his birthday card.

Sam sets the mug down, still oblivious to its appearance. “Okay, let’s start with the coffee table. Jared should be here soon. I am sure he got caught up in a line of code, or whatever.”

We both laugh at the perpetual other world Jared, Mack’s boyfriend, can sometimes occupy. Especially when it involves one of his many brilliant software creations.

Making our way to the coffee table, we make light work of it, with Sam walking backward down the two front steps, then up the three steps to my new side.

This half needs work still. The drywall is recently completed, but some dust remains. The downstairs floors are now in good shape, but the kitchen has no backsplash, the windows are missing trim, and the place needs a coat of paint.

Sam runs his hand over my drywall texture. “Not bad, your lines are good.”

I don’t let him see how happy his compliment makes me. I watched three hours of YouTube videos trying to perfect it.

“Thanks, uh …” I clear my throat. “It wasn’t a big deal.” I say it to the towel I’m suddenly very interested in refolding.

Sam stares at me, reading between the lines. “Sure, no big deal. But you know, this kind of work? Would make my Grandad happy. I’m sure it would have made yours too.”

I can’t help the warmth seeping through my bones thinking of my ojiichan. When my dad left, he moved in not long after, knowing someone needed to be there for me on Mom’s late nights. He helped fill the gap my dad left, until I lost him too early at age fifteen to a bout of pneumonia.

Sam clocks something in my silence and reroutes, giving me an out not to answer.

“So … let’s just move some of these supplies around to fit the coffee table in here.”

Thankful for the break in tension, we get to work moving the mess of supplies aside. Once finished, I step outside and breathe in the fresh, brisk air, letting the sunshine hit my face. Nessa says I need to work to feel gratitude in little moments “to thank the land and spirits for the abundance of my bountiful harvest.” I made a snide comment about her making a fertility ploy. But damn it, if she isn’t right.