My eyes skate to hers. “Why didn’t you?”
“Got busy,” she says with a shrug, but I can tell she doesn’t feel as nonchalant about it as she looks. In the grand scheme of things, I hardly know Stevie at all, but I don’t like the way grief has seemed to wash over her since her tires rolled up the last bit of the drive, the Airstream coming into view amongst the trees, the sun glinting on its aluminum.
“Show me around?” I ask.
Stevie’s gaze lifts to mine, holding for a brief second before she nods. “Come on.”
She leads the way back around the Airstream and opens the front door, boots clomping on the stairs, me on her heels. The inside is small, and it smells like wet earth, but I immediately like it, despite the damage. The light green walls, the warm wooden floors. There are books everywhere, crammed into every available space, and little terracotta plants lining the window sill. The side closest to the door seems to be the only portion that was damaged, but to my left, the kitchen stretches out like a hallway, leading to the bedroom in the back. There’s a well-loved knife block on the kitchen counter. Magnets on the stainless steel fridge. A neat stack of mail on the table. It’s homey, lived-in in a way that no place I’ve rented the last ten years has looked. It’s ahome.
When I look back at Stevie, she’s standing close. There’s not really another option, considering the damage to our right, but her nearness still shocks me a little.
“This,” she says, motioning around, “is it. Living room, or what used to be.” She gives me a self-depreciating smile. “Kitchen is to your left. Dining table and bathroom are just past it, and the bedroom is at the back.”
“I like it.” I run a hand along the butcherlock kitchen counter. It’s nicked in places, and I can imagine her here, knife in hand, hair tied in a braid, chopping vegetables for some elaborate meal she’s going to cook. I wonder how often she cooks for other people, if she ever hosts here. “It fits you.”
She lifts an eyebrow in question.
“Of what I know about you, anyway.”
Bracing her hands on the little desk behind her, she leans back on it, kicking one leg over the other. The vest she’s wearing unzipped over her shirt slips off one shoulder, snagging in the middle of her arm. “What do you know about me?”
In the light shining through the windows, her hazel eyes look less muddy, and more clear. There’s a starburst in the center. They’re the color the leaves turn when they land on the ground in the summer, turning from green to brown under the warmth of the sun.
“You like to cook,” I say. “Your kitchen shows it, even if it’s small. Those knives in the knife block look very fancy, and your countertops are full of knicks. The recipe books on the shelves in the kitchen look well-used.”
“Observant.”
“You like nature. Being outside. I liked all the little areas out there. The picnic table. The firepit out back. The garden. What do you grow?”
She looks surprised that I noticed all of those things, but she doesn't comment on it. Her eyes fix on the skylight above. “I used to grow mostly fruits and vegetables. A few flowers my friend Finley told me were easy to take care of. But I didn’t plant anything this year or last year.”
When her gaze settles back on mine, I ask, “Why?”
The shoulder that her vest is hanging from lifts in a small shrug. “Too busy.”
“Sounds like you’ve been really busy lately. Too busy for the tree. The garden. What else?”
She blinks at me, quiet for a long moment. “A lot of things, probably. Book club. Hobbies. Spending time with friends.”
“Why?”
A heavy breath fills her lungs before she lets it out. “Responsibilities.”
“What kind of responsibilities?” I’m not sure why I’m pressing, but something about Stevie makes me want to know her more. She’s as guarded as I am, I think.
She holds my gaze for two heartbeats, three. Then shakes her head, pushing off the desk. “Like fixing up this Airstream. You ready to get started?”
The door swings open beneath her hand, her shoulder brushing my front as she steps out into the yard, the wind lifting the pieces of hair that have already escaped her braid. When she turns back to me, I’m still standing in the doorway, watching her.
“Coming? All my tools are in the shed out back.”
I dip my chin in a nod, shaking myself out of whatever trance I’d fallen into. “Yeah, let’s get to work.”
“I’mtootiredtocook,” I say after locking up the Airstream for the night. We spent the day clearing out debris, running fans to dry out what could be salvaged, and inspecting damage. I’m dirty and could use a shower and a hefty meal that I don’t have to make myself.
Beside me Jack groans, rolling his shoulders. “Me too. I’m going to find a burger. And a beer.” He glances at me, blue eyes appearing flecked with brown in the setting sun. “You wanna come?”
I’m momentarily taken aback at the offer, despite having just spent the whole day together. Sometime in the last week our dynamic has started to shift from reluctant roommates to acquaintances. Not quite friends, but I think we’re on our way there. I think I like it.
