1
LILY
Idrop my bag on the bed and stand in the middle of the room. My room. My apartment. My decision that Rome hates and I am going to love out of spite if nothing else.
The fresh paint smell mixes with new wood, and it's small, sure, but everything's clean and renovated, and mine. New floors. Countertops that don't have mysterious stains from previous tenants. Appliances that look like they were installed this decade.
A living room with a window so big it takes up half the wall, and through it I can see straight into Erin's flower shop across the street.
I can already picture it. Early mornings, coffee in hand, watching her arrange peonies while the sun comes up. That sounds like peace. That sounds like the kind of life I'm trying to build.
Rome sets down my last bag, and immediatelystarts scanning the ceiling like he's searching for structural damage. Here we go.
"Outlet placement could be better," he mutters, already opening cabinets, running his thumb along the countertop edge like he's conducting an inspection. "Grout's decent."
"High praise," I shoot back, but he's not listening. He's too busy examining hinges or whatever else his architect brain has decided needs scrutiny.
He turns to me and I know that face. That face has never once preceded good news. That face means he's about to suggest something I don't want to hear, frame it like it's for my own good, and make me fight him on it, even though I'm exhausted and just want to put my shirts in a drawer.
"I still think you should reconsider the travel option," he tries again in the voice he uses when he's trying not to start a fight, but is absolutely about to start a fight.
"Take a friend even. I'll pay for that too."
I unzip my bag and start pulling out clothes, not looking at him. "I'm standing in the option I chose, Rome. A year from now we can argue about what comes next."
"Portugal is nice this time of year," he offers, moving to the window, testing the seal with his fingers like air might be leaking through.
"So is Harbor Hill."
"Harbor Hill is twenty-eight degrees."
I shove t-shirts into a drawer harder than necessary. "I like the cold."
He turns from the window. "Since when?"
"Since right now." I slam the drawer shut. "New personality trait. I'm evolving."
He doesn't laugh. Rome rarely laughs when he's worried,and Rome is always worried about me. Has been since I was ten and he was eighteen and our parents decided that their next dig site was more important than us. More important than me.
Our parents are archaeologists. They're the restless kind. The kind who hear about a new excavation in Jordan or a discovery in Peru and pack bags before the phone call ends. The kind who see the whole world as something to unearth, except their own children.
They dragged us from dig to dig for years. New country every few months. New school. New temporary friends I'd never see again.
Rome and I learned to pack light and say goodbye easily. We learned that home was wherever our suitcases landed, and that our parents' eyes always drifted toward the horizon, the next thing that wasn't us.
Eventually Rome said no more. He was eighteen, I was ten, and he told them he wasn't following them to the next dig. Told them I needed a real school. A real bed. A real life that didn't fit in a duffel bag.
And when he'd suggested they let him take me, let him give me something stable, something that looked like an actual childhood...
They'd agreed too easily. That's the part that still hurts to this day. How fast they said yes. How relieved they looked. Like he was solving a problem they'd been hoping someone else would fix. Like we were artifacts they'd catalogued and were ready to archive.
I had never felt so unloved or unwanted in my life, and no matter how hard Rome tried, that feeling sticks to this day.
So Rome became serious, practical. The kind of person who checks window seals and grout lines and worries about outlet placement. And I became the opposite. Reckless, he says. I say I'm just trying to live.
He's a little right. I'm a little right. We're both too stubborn to admit the other has a point.
"You could rest somewhere bigger," he continues, still hovering by the window like he can't help himself. "Somewhere with more options. You don't have to stay in one place."
