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DID YOU ARRIVE AT THE HOUSE.
I send a picture of the living room, followed by:
Inside. Not arrested.
LOW BAR BUT WE CELEBRATE.
Another message follows.
DO NOT CHANGE LOCKS. DO NOT SELL FURNITURE. DO NOT TEXT PAUL A SELFIE FROM HIS PATIO.
Honestly, that last one had not occurred to me until now. I set the phone down before I do something stupid.
I look at the painting over the couch again. Two men on the beach. One turned away. One almost leaving. I wonder which one Paul thought he was when he painted it, then I wonder why I care.
I’m tired.
Travel tired. Heat tired. Legal tired. Bentley-gone tired in a way I am not giving any more space to today.
The bedrooms are down the hall. I pull my suitcase behind me. The wheels click over the tile, too loud in the quiet house.
The first door is a bathroom. Bigger than Mom’s kitchen, and cleaner. Rolled towels in a basket like they’re waiting for a spa guest.
The next door opens to a bedroom.
The big one.
King mattress with white bedding. Glass doors leading straight out to a little side patio with plants and a sliver of pool visible.
It feels too arranged, too centered. Too clearly the room meant for the people who belong. Renny and Paul. Mr. Paul, who arrives later in the season, whose paintings hang everywhere like watchful eyes even in absence.
I stand at the foot of the bed and imagine Paul here. See him laying down a watch on the nightstand, opening the patio door in the morning.
Not details. I don’t want details. Just the shape of him here.
I back out and close the door.
The next door is a smaller bedroom. Smaller, in this house, still means nicer than anything I have ever called mine.
The view is still good.
“This one.”
I lift the suitcase onto the luggage rack at the foot of the bed, unzip it, and stare at my life folded badly inside.
Shorts—not many. T-shirts, a few more of those. Underwear for a week.
Laptop. Ring light. Lube.
One decent button-up.
I take out the laptop first, then stop.
I shove it back under a pair of shorts and close the suitcase halfway.
“Later,” I mutter.
I leave the bedroom and keep exploring.
