I’m more than ready to follow Harper upstairs, purring cat tucked securely in her arms.
“Well, that went better than expected,” I say. But my optimism lasts only as long as it takes for her next words to make it out of her mouth.
“I guess it was good it happened now, since I’m taking off in seven days. Then Sox will be all yours.”
I almost stumble in my tracks.
Seven days.
168 hours.
10,080 minutes.
604,800 seconds.
My brain does the math automatically, breaking down exactly how much time I have left with her. Seven days until she’s gone. Until this house goes back to being Mom and Silas and me. And a rambunctious cat, I guess.
But that won’t help rid me of the memory of the most fascinating person who ever crashed into my carefully ordered life.
Seven. A prime number. Usually lucky.
Until now.
She says it so casually. Like seven days is nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.
She hadn’t mentioned leaving again since that one afternoon in the car, when she finally let me get a glimpse of the real her.
Since then, she asked if we could pick up Marie on the way to school and back—eliminating those twenty minutes when it was just the two of us, when she might accidentally let something real slip through. The two of them just chat in the back seat the whole time.
Before poker tonight, she hasn’t looked at me directly in a week, apart from our co-cat parent duties.
But now her birthday is seven days away.
She heads into her room and leaves the door open behind her instead of closing it in my face, which I assume is an invitation?
I stand in the hallway, unsure.
Her room. I’ve been in here before—feeding Sox, checking the litter box—but always briefly. Task-focused. In and out.
Now she’s inviting me to stay.
I can see from here: clothes draped over her desk chair (three shirts, unfolded), books stacked on her nightstand (four books, different heights, no order), the closet door half-open (not fully open, not fully closed—halfway, which is worse than either extreme).
My fingers drum against my thigh. One-two-three-four-five. One-two-three-four-five.
But then she calls over her shoulder, “Come in, what are you waiting for? The cat will just escape again.”
I step inside. Close the door behind me.
The click feels too loud. Too final.
I close the door, and she lets the cat go. Sox immediately scampers back to a little nest she’s made for herself in the back of Harper’s closet. Harper turns on some low music and sits on her bed, thumbing through her phone.
I try to think about anything except the image of her on her bed.Is it hot in here?I tug at my collar. God, it’s been torturous enough sharing a wall with her.
I recognize the music and focus on it.The Civil Wars. Huh. Is that a good sign? Maybe I’m not the only one collecting pieces of the ones I care about.
Then again, she’s on her bed, phone in hand, looking completely unbothered by my presence.