She flashes me a look, her eyes lighting. “We? I was promised thatyou’dbe making it.”
I climb out of the car without answering and run around the front so I can open her door. Offering her my hand, I say, “I’ll make dessert, and you can sit on my counter and look pretty.”
“I was hoping for a grand piano, but I guess the counter works.”
I pull her tighter, wrapping an arm around her waist, and press a kiss to the top of her head, right where her hair meets her skin. “I’ll try to procure a grand piano before the next time you come over.”
Her eyebrows arch. “I’ll get a second invite? I thought you weren’t known for that.”
“You’re the only woman to get a first invite here,” I reply.
Surprise flickers of her features. Suppressing a smile as she avoids my gaze, she says, “I feel special.”
I want to tell her how special she is to me, but that feels more vulnerable than I can handle being right now, so I keep my mouth shut and instead unlock the door. When I flick on the lights, Finley lets out an awed gasp.
“Grey, this place is…” She trails off.
A smile stretches across my face. “A little different from when I moved in?”
The secluded house with its lakeside views was once full of character, according to the online listing, but out-of-towner flippers had gutted it and replaced everything with cheap gray wood, bleached white walls, and basic silver fixtures. I’m sure it was someone’s style, but it wasn’t mine.
Most importantly, the place was livable, so I was able to move in and, with lots of help from Holden, slowly make updates over the years. We found original pine hardwoods under the peel-and-stick planks. It needed to be refinished, but now they look as good as new. The walls are painted in warm, rich colors, and I installed darker cabinets in the kitchen. I’m still not entirely sure how to decorate, but the bones are good, and I even downloadedPinterestat Wren’s suggestion. The place is homey, and for the first time, I don’t feel lonely in it.
“Very different,” she echoes. She and Holden helped me move in over five years ago, but I wasn’t lying when I said I haven’t invited any women over. So it looks like a new place now, barely recognizable to what she saw the last time she was here.
I leave her in the living room, examining the changes I’ve made, and make my way into the kitchen. The entire downstairs is open concept, meaning I can watch her trailing her fingers over the fireplace mantel that Holden and I installed as I wash my hands and get out the ingredients for brownies. Neither of my parents are especially good cooks, but Jodi is a master, and the first thing I ever learned to make from scratch was homemade brownies. Her special recipe. There’s finely chopped dark chocolate, high-quality cocoa, and a pinch of nutmeg.
When she hears the sharpthudof the knife hitting the cutting board, she stops her perusing and turns to me with a wide smile. “You’re making brownies?”
I nod, the knife almost slipping when my eyes catch on the smile gracing her lips, the way she looks so content here in my space. It makes my chest warm, my heart race, my mind think of thousands of scenarios I probably shouldn’t be considering with a sharp object in my hand.
“Mom’s recipe?” she asks, moving to the other side of the island, palms resting on the countertop between us.
“Of course.”
“That’s my favorite dessert,” she says.
I glance up at her, my attention snagged once more. It’s hard to focus with her here, looking so good in my house. “I know.” The words slip out, and with them, a pleased flush creeps up her cheeks. I’m showing my hand, and I don’t even care. I think I’m only one careless comment away from her figuring out I’ve been in love with her for the better part of fifteen years.
“Can I help?”
At my nod, Finley moves around the counter and washes her hands. We work in that same easy silence we fell into at the station, the one born from years of cooking beside each other at Jodi’s. My house growing up was always so quiet that I assumed I’d want constant conversation and noise in my own home, but what I’m only starting to realize is that there are different kinds of quiet. There’s the fraught silence that follows an argument and the tense one that precedes it. There’s the type of silence that makes your insides ache, the awkward kind that feels desperate to be filled. There’s the silence that comes from years of not caring enough to fill it. Growing up, I was familiar with all of these, so much so that I began to resent the quiet, needing to constantly fill it with any kind of noise imaginable.
Then I met Holden, and I visited his house. It was always noisy—TVs, music, conversation, laughter, teasing debates, arguments that always ended with apologies and hugs—and I grew addicted to that noise. Craved it from the silence of my childhood bedroom.
I never thought I’d like this more than the noise. That having Finley here, quiet beside me, would fill me up in a way the cacophony of Jodi’s house never has. This feels new and different and exhilarating and addicting.
“What are you thinking so loudly over there?” she asks as I pour the batter into the pan, scraping the sides. It’s a phrase I’ve heard Jodi use before, and it makes a smile tug at my lips.
I feel vulnerable again, and my first instinct is to make a quippy remark to hide it. Instead, I choose honesty. With a shrug, I set the bowl down, hand her the spoon to lick, and say, “I like having you here.”
She holds my gaze, a slight flush creeping up her neck. I want to lean in and taste it, feel its warmth against my skin.“I like being here,” she replies, and that warmth gathers in my stomach, spreading through my limbs.
I’m about to respond when her tongue darts out, dragging across the spoon, and my throat closes up at the sight. All those thoughts I shoved away for my own protection when garnishing a knife come back in full force, making me hot all over. When she catches my attention fixed on her mouth, she grins, something wicked that makes my head spin, and passes the spoon to me. “Want a taste?”
I can feel my eyes dilating, but my brain snaps back to attention when a laugh barks out of her.
“You should see your face.”
