Page 66 of Just One Little Bargain

The first thing I notice about Evie’s living room is that her couch is drowning in an ocean of throw pillows. Florals, geometric shapes, and solid colors compete for space, but somehow the couch gets away with it. Apparently, Evie’s decorating philosophy was to choose everything.

“You’re staring.”

“Because it’s a lot to process.” I gesture at the pillow situation. “How do you even sit on that thing?”

“I remove them first.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

“That seems exhausting.”

Her chin lifts. “It’s called aesthetic.”

“It’s called excessive.”

She opens her mouth, probably to eviscerate me, but I’ve already wandered toward the bookshelf along the far wall. I crouch beside it. The books form a perfect gradient. Orange fades into coral, then pink, periwinkle, and deep blue. Every spine is aligned, every edge flush.

Except one.

Tucked between two pristine coral paperbacks, a single book sits with its spine so creased that the title is barely legible. The cover is warped from being held open too many times, pages fanned and yellowed at the edges. She shelved it in the correct color position, kept it inside the system, but she’s read this thing to death.

“Are you judging my books?” she asks from behind me.

I pull my hand back from where it had drifted near the worn spine. “No. I’m impressed.”

“By what?”

“The commitment.” I nod toward the rainbow shelf. “This took effort.”

“I can’t tell if you’re mocking me or being serious.”

“It’s beautiful.”

Pink creeps up her neck, blooming past the collar of her shirt, and she looks away fast.

“It’s just a room.”

“Everything in here says something about you.”

“Please don’t psychoanalyze my decor.”

“I’m not.” I look around again, taking in the details. Books are stacked on the coffee table with spines aligned to the millimeter. A throw blanket is folded in perfect thirds over the couch arm. Every plant sits in its designated spot, each leaf angled toward the light. “You like things organized.”

“Most people do.”

“Not like this.” I nod toward the one book that broke ranks. “You also keep the things that matter to you close. Even when they don’t fit perfectly.”

Evie shifts her weight and winces. “Can we not do the part where you narrate my personality based on my interior?”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s weird.”

“I think it’s interesting.” I straighten and turn to face her, cutting the distance between us in half. “You’re interesting.”

She drops her arms and immediately crosses them again. “We should probably talk about tomorrow.”