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I cross to the kitchen, because I have to unfist my hand before a bone breaks. The greasy ball of plate makes a wet sound when I drop it into the trash under the sink.
Paul watches me carefully.
“Pizza?” he asks.
“Supposed to be. It was basically bread covered in cheese and ketchup.”
One corner of his mouth moves.
“I could smell it.”
I wash my hands at the sink because now I can feel every soggy bill that touched me, every hand, all mixing with the grease from the not-pizza between my fingers. The soap smell fills the room.
I dry my hands on a towel and nod toward the coffee table. It’s been decorated with two neat rows of framed photos.
“Am I underdressed?”
He blinks. “What?”
“The display.” I gesture. “Feels formal. Should I have worn a jacket?”
“No.” He smiles, and this time it holds for more than a second. He looks down at the frames. “No, I just…”
Paul looks at the photos again, then back at me. “I thought we could have that talk.”
“About the house?”
“Yes.”
I lean against the island. “Okay.”
The room goes quieter around us. I should stay by the kitchen, but Paul’s posture is too stiff. His hand is too close to one of the frames, like this is something I maybe shouldn’t see.
I walk to the chair across from the couch and sit there.
“You’re alone,” I say.
“Don’s at his place. Just up the road a bit.”
I laugh a little. “Of course.”
His brow creases. “What?”
“Nothing, just… do all the people you know own vacation homes?”
Paul looks away for a moment, then says, “You know, a lot of them do.”
“Bet your crew can rack up a hell of a dinner check.”
I sit back in the chair, but not too far. My body is tired from dancing and climbing, and the cushion wants me to admit it. I keep my feet planted, one hand loose on the armrest, the other on my thigh.
“You kept your promise,” I say. “My stuff isn’t soaking on the street corner.”
His eyes meet mine, then he looks down at the photos. His throat moves.
“This is my house. But—for now, legally—it’s your house, too.”
I lean forward. “I think legally it’s still Renny’s.”
