“I’m going to shower and change.”
Vanessa turns to face me.“Am I allowed to snoop?”
“No.”
“Do you think you can stop me?”Her smile growing wider.
“No.”A short chuff escapes me which pulls a laugh from her, the sound following me down the hallway long after I leave her standing in my living room.
The shower should clear my head.It doesn’t.Water beats hot against my shoulders as I stand beneath it longer than necessary, hyperaware of the woman moving through my home on the other side of the door.
She’s seeing pieces of my life I’ve kept closed to everyone else.Touching my books.Reading record spines.Noticing things I forgot I left visible.That should bother me, but what’s strange is that it doesn’t.
By the time I turn off the water and step out, I can hear faint music drifting from the living room.It’s not from my overhead speakers though, as I recognize the crackle that only comes from vinyl.
I dress in jeans and a black sweater, towel my hair dry, and follow the sound down the hall.Vanessa is standing barefoot near the record player, her boots abandoned by the sofa, one of my old blues records spinning beneath the needle.She’s holding the sleeve in both hands, studying the worn edges like she’s examining an artifact.
Her eyes find mine when I enter the room.“You have a very organized system.”
“Obviously.”
“It’s deranged.”She declares, as she points to the cataloged rows and rows of records.
“It’s precise.”I contend on a shrug.
“You have blues between melancholy and destructive longing.”
“That’s where it belongs.”
She looks up at me, eyes bright with amusement.“You know most people simply alphabetize.”
“Most people lack imagination.”I toss back like it’s a well-known fact.
Her laugh comes easier now.So does mine.And that’s probably the most dangerous thing about this entire day.The fact that she’s standing in my apartment like she already belongs here and me realizing how much I like it.How much I like all the ordinary parts.The ridiculous argument over record organization.The way she’s made herself comfortable without asking permission.The fact that the apartment feels less silent with her in it.
Vanessa is sliding the record sleeve back into place when I notice her gaze catch on something near the end of the shelf.I know what it is before her fingers even reach for it.It’s a small framed photograph, half-hidden beside a stack of vinyl I rarely touch anymore.
Emily.Six years old.Missing front tooth.Hair in uneven pigtails.Grinning at the camera with both hands wrapped around a bouquet of sunflowers nearly as big as her chest.
Vanessa’s hand freezes before she touches the frame.She doesn’t pick it up.She just looks and that restraint does something to me I’m not prepared for.
“It’s one of the last pictures we took of her,” I share almost on a whisper.
Her gaze shifts to me, soft but careful.“It’s a wonderful memory to have.”
I nod once.For a second, the room changes.The air tightens around a name that still has the power to make me feel ten years old.Vanessa doesn’t step closer.Doesn’t fill the silence with comfort I didn’t ask for.She simply looks back at the photo, her expression gentle.
“She was beautiful.”
“She was a menace.”
A faint smile touches her mouth.“Aren’t all little sisters?”
The pressure in my chest eases enough that I can breathe again.I cross the room and take the frame from the shelf, not because I’m hiding it, but because I realize I want to hold it.The glass is cool beneath my thumb.“She liked sunflowers.”
Vanessa’s eyes flick to mine as she makes the connection.The flowers yesterday.Van Gogh.Emily.A thread I didn’t even realize existed until this moment.
“I didn’t know that.”She breathes out.
