I stand back while they get the feet on and level it. They get the final nod from Paige and step back.
“Great,” the shorter mover says, already halfway to the door. “Freezer’s next.”
We stand there in the silence that follows, broken only by the sound of the movers unloading the freezer. She doesn’t look at me, her focus on the fridge, as if she stares hard enough, it’ll do a trick.
I shift my weight, glance around. I can’t see the kitchen from the front window, and the last time I was in here, about six weeks ago, they were finishing up the electrical work.
The floors are dirty at the moment because of the movers, but I can see under the dirt that they’ve been buffed and shined more than once. The walls have been painted in here too, and the miles and miles of counter gleam in the bright lights of the kitchen.
“You’ve done a lot,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t answer right away. Then, softly: “Yeah.”
I want to say more. That I’ve seen the lights on at night, that I’ve been stupid enough to press my hand to the glass like a kid at a candy store just to feel close to it. To her. But I bite it back.
The delivery guys are back at the door with the freezer balanced on a dolly, and the whole process starts over again.
And over again with each appliance they bring in. By the time they’re done, paperwork is signed, and the movers are out the door with a message that the team to install everything will be by tomorrow, my shirt is stuck to my spine, and Paige’s hair is falling out of her ponytail.
We’re left in the wake of settling dust, alone with a line of gleaming steel that makes the room feel smaller and bigger at once. Outside, the truck rattles away. Inside, it’s quiet enough to hear the tick of metal settling and the faint hiss from the A/C.
Paige pushes a loose strand of hair behind her ear with the back of her wrist, breathing out like she’s been holding it in since the first appliance hit the threshold. “Okay,” she says to no one, to the room, to herself. “Okay.”
“The door,” I say, nodding toward the slab leaning against the wall. “Before you have a raccoon in here making himself at home.”
Her mouth almost curves. Almost. “Right. Forgot about the door.” She grabs the pins from the counter where she set them and steps to the frame with me.
“You have to slide them back in while I hold the door in place.”
I shoulder the door and manage to line up the top hinge with her guiding it. She lines the pins up and manages to slide the pin down. “Bottom now,” I grunt.
After she’s done, I instruct her to tap them into place.
Once she’s done, I carefully let the door go, and it swings true.
She pulls the handle and lets it fall shut. It seals with a satisfying click. She tests it again. I memorize the small sound she makes—something like approval, something like relief.
“You want a proper stop for that?” I ask, looking at the sugar canister that was propping the door open before I came. “I can bring one over tomorrow.”
“Is that usually something the landlord provides?”
I huff a laugh. “This one does. I have a bin full of them. It’ll only take a few minutes to screw one in.”
She studies me for a second too long, then lets it go with a small nod. “Okay. Tomorrow. Thanks.”
“Water?” she asks abruptly, already moving. She pulls two bottles from the little dorm fridge she has tucked under the counter and tosses one lightly across to me. I catch it one-handed, twist the cap, and drink cold, crisp water.
The kitchen feels fuller with the hulking appliances lined up against the walls, all that stainless catching the overhead light. Paige leans her hip against the counter, drinks, eyes skimming the room, taking in every detail.
I remember the exact feeling when I was opening The Wandering Pint. The wonder of knowing it was my place, the excitement, the terror.
“Feels real now, huh?” I say before I can stop myself.
Her eyes cut to me, then back to the fridge. “Yeah. It does.”
“It looks good,” I say quietly.
She doesn’t look at me, but one shoulder lifts in the barest shrug. “We’ll see when it all turns on tomorrow. And after the inspector comes by.”
