Page 39

The physical sensation of Evan’s lips on the top of my head is currently registering as a thermal anomaly—one I would very much like to extinguish with a fire hose.

It’s not that I mind him. In the grand, messy hierarchy of my childhood, he, Mara, and Casey were the only constants aside from my mother that didn’t involve a sketch book or a library fine.

There was no my house and their house back then. The four of us existed in a single, blurred geography, moving between homes as if they were all part of the same place until the sun went down and forced us back to our own beds. Evan spent so much time at ours, I’m surprised he didn’t have his mail rerouted to the foyer.

But having him show up at my childhood home at nine in the morning is a level of small-town domesticity I haven't consented to in at least twelve years. At ten, it was endearing; in our early twenties, when we were living together and playing house, it was the baseline of my existence. Now, at thirty-two, it feels like a glitch in the space-time continuum—a ghost of a closeness that definitely hasn't survived the intervening decade.

Then there’s the other problem. The taller, prettier, more irritating problem currently standing on the welcome mat.

Seeing him here shouldn’t be a shock. He’s an investigative podcaster; a professional bloodhound with a microphone. My mother is the town’s living library of neighborhood watch folders and property disputes.

Mathematically, their trajectories were always going to intersect. I just hadn't prepared for the collision to happen while I was here, wearing a t-shirt from a 2014 forensic conference and a fine patina of thirty-year-old attic dust.

I roll my eyes so hard I’m fairly certain I can see my own optic nerves. "Come inside before the neighbors start calling in a suspicious-looking loiterer and Evan has to come back."

He looks at me like I’ve just asked him to help me hide a body. His jaw actually drops, his eyes darting from me to the spot where Evan just vanished, then back to my face. He looks genuinely floored that I’m letting him past the threshold.

"You’re... inviting me in?" he asks. His voice usually registers as an unwanted distraction. Right now, it just sounds wary.

"Don't make it a thing," I snap, stepping back and swinging the door wider. "I’m already dealing with a surplus of personality inside."

The second he steps into the entryway, the space feels smaller. Baryn is a large human—not just in height, but in presence. He’s all broad shoulders and expensive-smelling leather, and having him in my mother’s cramped Victorian foyer feels like putting a thoroughbred in a linen closet.

From the back of the house, the sound of a verbal civil war drifts toward us.

"It’s a relic, Elaine! It represents a specific era of culinary ambition that we have long since abandoned!" I can practically see Tamsin pointing a finger at whatever piece of junk my mother is currently defending.

"It’s an Osterizer, Tamsin! It made Serena’s first solid-ish meal! You cannot simply discard the vessel of your own child’s nourishment because it has a slight electrical hiss!" My mother’s voice is higher, more melodic, and waging a war of attrition from the trenches of sentimental hoarding.

I sigh, the sound dragging out of my chest as I lead Baryn toward the kitchen.

My mother is a force of nature—specifically, a fucking hurricane.

My visit so far has been less of a sentimental homecoming and more of an unpaid internship in waste management. I’m sixty percent sure she didn't actually miss me; she just realized that her hoarding had reached a critical mass and she needed two able-bodied adults with varying levels of guilt to help her dig her way out.

She’s spent the morning roping us into decluttering, which is actually her version of a psychological stress test. She’s made me hold every cracked vase and rusted whisk, asking if it “speaks to our shared history” before ultimately deciding to put it back in the cupboard because it might be useful for a themed dinner party in 2029.

As we round the corner into the kitchen, I realize something else.

My mother hasn't seen me with a man who isn’t Evan in, well, ever. If she sees Baryn—with his devastating bone structure—she is going to pivot from blender-defense to match-making with the speed of a particle accelerator.

I can already feel the headache forming. Moderate to severe.

"Mom," I say, my voice raising just enough to cut through the blender debate. "We have a guest."

The kitchen is a battlefield of boxes and ancient appliances. My mother, Elaine, is clutching a beige blender to her chest, while Tamsin stands over a cardboard box labeled 'TRASH: DO NOT TOUCH UNDER PENALTY OF DEATH.'

They both freeze, and my mother instantly zeroes in on Baryn with predatory curiosity. I know exactly what she thinks she sees: a high-interest investment opportunity. And not the money kind.

"Oh," my mother’s voice flutters up an octave as she finally sets the blender on the counter. She smooths her apron, her eyes raking over Baryn. Tamsin seizes the distraction as an opportunity to discreetly place it in her trash box. "Serena. You didn't mention we were expecting… company."

"He’s not company, Mom. He’s the lead investigator for that podcast everyone in town is gossiping about," I say, stepping fully into the room. "This is B.R. Slate."

Baryn shifts, his large frame making the kitchen’s clutter feel even more claustrophobic. He offers a charming smile. "Actually, you can just call me Slate.”

His dentition is unusually uniform—straight, even teeth that likely trigger some kind of neurohormonal response in authority figures and reduce the consequences of his traffic violations. Combined with a robust zygomatic arch—cheekbones—and a well-defined mandible, he possesses a cranial phenotype statistically optimized for social navigation.

It’s very annoying.