Jordan is still for a moment, then meets my eyes. “ I’ve been in your studio, Maddie,” Jordan says quietly, stepping closer. “ I’ve seen what you make. That’s not dust—it’s real. Something people remember.”
“You know what I mean,” I insist.
“No, I don’t,” they reply softly, coming within reach. “Because your life here matters—the store, your art, the way you care for me. It’s not nothing. It’s everything, from where I’m standing.”
I swallow. “And then you’re gone to Burlington for weeks at a time. That’s temporary too.”
Jordan’s face shifts, hurt or weariness—I can’t tell which. “So it’s just about the job?”
“It’s not just that.” I close my eyes, thinking of the half-written business plan in the ledger, Jordan’s name scrawled inthe margins. I haven’t dared say it out loud—for fear that if I do, wanting it will make me vulnerable.
They wait in the soft kitchen light, jaw clenched. Then, barely above a whisper, Jordan asks, “What about loving me?”
Their question hangs between us. I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. Silence swells around the cold tea, the condo printouts, the clutter and the yellow glow of the overhead bulb. Finally, Jordan pushes back from the counter and moves to the door. They don’t look at me or say goodbye—just slip out into the warm July night. The screen door swings shut softly, but final enough to echo in my chest.
I reach for the door and freeze, hand hovering in midair. I don’t follow them. The microwave clock blinks 8:34. The listings wait on the table, patient and glossy. The tea sits cold. I lower myself into a chair and let the quiet swallow me, heavy and unavoidable.
Chapter 10
The beer in my hand is going warm, which tells you how long I’ve been sitting here. The common room at the Stocking is quiet in that particular way that only happens when most of the residents are out—fridge humming down the hall, a clock ticking somewhere I’ve never bothered to find, and the ceiling fan clicking on its lowest setting, barely stirring the July heat.
I haven’t taken a sip in maybe twenty minutes. The can is sweating a ring onto the coffee table, one of those IKEA hand-me-downs with the wobbly leg I’ve been meaning to fix for a year. The ring is getting bigger, slow and patient, and I can’t bring myself to wipe it or move the can or do anything about it at all.
Maddie’s face keeps replaying. Not her words, not the fight…her face, right at the end, when I askedWhat about loving me?and she just... didn’t answer. Her jaw went tight, her eyes went somewhere else, and the silence filled the whole kitchen like floodwater. I left before the silence drowned me.
My thumb taps the can.Tap. Tap. Tap.The sound bounces off the empty room. The clock keeps ticking. My jaw aches from clenching it.
“Rough night?”
Roz drops into the armchair across from me, pulling one leg under her. She’s got her own drink, something clear with lime, and doesn’t bother with the fake casual, theoh-I-didn’t-notice-you-sitting-here-with-your-soul-leaking-out-your-earsroutine. That’s Roz. She’s lived upstairsfor four years and has never once pretended not to see what’s right in front of her.
“Something like that,” I say.
She nods, takes a sip, but doesn’t push.
Dev appears in the doorway a minute later, one shoulder propped against the frame, arms crossed. Their hair is buzzed close to their scalp, and they’ve got that look, the one that says they’re about to say exactly what they think and they’ve already decided it’s worth the fallout.
“You’ve been asking her to plant herself while you keep one boot out the door,” Dev says. Not a question. A fact, delivered with the precision of someone who’s been watching the whole slow-motion train wreck from the cheap seats.
I don’t brush them off. I don’t argue. Something about the way they’re standing there, not even fully in the room, like they’re ready to retreat if I snap—but they said it anyway.
Dev drifts into the room and parks themselves on the arm of Roz’s chair, and the three of us sit in a triangle of mismatched furniture while the house creaks around us.
Roz sets her glass on her knee. “Look,” she says, gentle but not soft. “Someone who’s spent years feeling like a guest somewhere doesn’t need to be convinced to stay. They need proof they won’t be left.”
My throat tightens. I keep my eyes on the floor.
“The Burlington job,” she continues, “it’s not just bad timing to her. It’s evidence. It’s you showing her you can disappear whenever things get complicated.”
“That’s not—” I start, and then stop, because what am I going to say? That’s not true? The words die in my mouth.
Dev leans forward. “You know what you’ve been doing? The exact kind of half-in living you’ve been criticizing her for. Picking up out-of-town work whenever it suits you, dropping it when itdoesn’t. Keeping your bags metaphorically packed while asking her to unpack hers.”
The words land like bricks. Not because they’re cruel, but because they’re right. I’ve been running this town like it’s mine for years, fixing chimneys and patching roofs and showing up for every damn thing that needs a hand, but the minute something good comes along somewhere else, I’m halfway out the door. And I’ve been standing in Maddie’s kitchen telling her she belongs here while my own duffel is by the stairs, mentally packed for the next job to call.
I don’t argue. I sit with it. My elbows are on my knees, my hands loose between them, and the weight of what they’re saying settles into my chest, heavy and real and overdue.
“You love her,” Roz says. It’s not a question.
