I sign. My name on the line. The first lease I've ever signed. The first door that's mine. The first window, the first kitchen, the first closet where more than three shirts will hang because people keep giving me things.
Mrs. Zillmann hands me the keys. Two of them, on a plain ring.
"Welcome home," she says, then leaves us alone.
Silas is leaning against the wall, hands in his pockets, eyes red, waiting.
"Done?" he asks.
I hold up the keys. They catch the light.
"Done."
He pushes off the wall. Takes my hand. Looks at the keys, then at me.
"Herbs on the sill," he says.
"Herbs on the sill."
"Kitchen scale."
"Jason's picking one out."
"Month to month."
"Month to month."
"And then bookshelves."
"And then bookshelves."
We walk back to the bar to get my bags. Both of them now, because the pride keeps giving me things and one backpack isn't enough anymore. Two bags. Progress. The slow accumulation of a life that's expanding instead of contracting, filling instead of emptying, becoming more instead of less.
The walk takes twelve minutes. His hand in mine. The fall afternoon, bright and cold. Our geography, the library, the café, the bar, and now a studio apartment on Birch Street with a window above the sink and a lease with my name on it.
Month to month.
But the bookshelves are oak. And oak lasts forever.
Chapter 23
Silas
The apartment is smaller than I expected. Not in a bad way. In the way that things are smaller when you actually stand inside them instead of imagining them. Four hundred square feet of freshly painted walls and new carpet and one window above the kitchen sink that lets in a bit of light.
Devin's been here for six hours. In that time, he has: arranged his books on the floor along the far wall because he doesn't have a shelf yet, set up his mattress (no frame, just the mattress on the floor with sheets Robin brought over still in the plastic wrap), plugged in his phone on the kitchen counter, and put three small herb pots on the windowsill above the sink. Basil, thyme, rosemary. Jason's starter kit.
He's also made coffee. In a French press. His first kitchen purchase. Not a bed frame, not a table, not any of the things a normal person would buy first. A French press.
"You own a mattress and a French press," I say from the doorway.
"And herbs." He hands me a mug. A plain white mug from the thrift store, one of two. "And two mugs. And a kitchen scale."
"The kitchen scale before furniture."
"Jason said the scale was non-negotiable. He was very intense about it."
"Jason is very intense about everything."