Page 27 of Until You

“I’m going to reorganize the pantry,” she says. “Your grandfather organizes by height, and it’s a crime against God.”

“He’s been doing that for thirty years.”

“Then it’s been a crime for thirty years.” She heads toward the kitchen. Pauses in the doorway. Looks back over her shoulder. “Welcome home, Oliver.”

Then she’s gone.

I sit on the couch and stare at the hallway she disappeared into.

Welcome home.

Like she belongs here.

Like I’m the visitor.

I pull out my phone. Open the group chat. Stare at the messages. My eyes snag on Payton’s question.

Payton: Is she pretty?

Me: Irrelevant.

I close the chat.

Pretty isn’t the right word anyway.

The right word is mischief.

The right word is mine.

I close my eyes and correct myself immediately. She’s not mine. She’s my grandparents’ aide. She’s a woman I slept with once. She’s a stranger with a pencil in her hair and chipped nail polish and a past she holds like a closed fist.

She’s not mine.

But there’s something she hasn’t told me yet. I felt it in the air between us—the same way I can feel a storm building before the sky changes color. Something unsaid, sitting just below the surface of every word she chose and every pause she took.

Something important.

And I’m going to find out what it is.

Whether I’m ready for it or not.