Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
Lennon
The apartment smells of fresh paint and bad decisions.
I didn’t sleep well last night or long, for that matter.
The mattress Derek left behind still had plastic wrap on one corner that crinkled every time I moved, and even though I was exhausted, my brain wouldn’t shut up long enough to let me rest. I gave up around six o’clock and spent an hour in the shower, letting the hot water run until the bathroom was thick with steam and my skin turned pink.
It didn’t fix anything, but at least I feel marginally human now.
After, I sat on the bathroom floor with my nail kit and filed down all my nails to match the one that cracked the night before—short and practical, the length I always kept when I was working in the kitchen.
Then I painted them the same lemon yellow and added tiny citrus slices on my ring finger, so that at least my hands can look like they have their shit together.
Now I’m standing in the empty kitchen at eight in the morning, with paperwork spread across the kitchen counter. A three-month lease and a security deposit, that’s not super permanent. That’s just… lingering. And that’s okay. Right?
My pen hovers over the signature line.
This is fine.
This is absolutely fine.
People move across the country and sign leases all the time. People start over.
People don’t usually do it because their best friend asked them to in a dream.
But details.
“You good?”
I look up. Derek is leaning against the doorframe. He showed up early—too early, honestly—but at least he is as nice as he was on the phone yesterday.
“Yep,” I say a little too brightly. “Just double-checking that this isn’t secretly a cult contract.”
He chuckles, and I scrawl my signature across the bottom.
Lennon Maes.
There. Done. Committed.
Derek steps forward and collects the pages, glancing them over before handing me a key ring with another brass key.
“Welcome home. Trash day is Wednesday. Recycling is every other week. Any questions?”
About a million, but none he can answer.
“I’m good. Thank you.”
He nods and heads for the door, pausing at the threshold. “You need anything, help with the furniture, recommendations, whatever, just knock on my door. I’m living in the apartment above yours.”
“I will. Thanks, Derek.”
The door clicks shut behind him, and I’m alone again. I look down at the keys in my palm, then around at the space that’s apparently mine for the next three months.
It’s empty, not just without furniture but without personality, lacking any evidence that anyone has ever stood here and felt anything.
The walls are white, and the floors are a color between beige and regret.
There’s a window in the main room that looks out onto a fire escape, and beyond it is the parking lot.
That’s it, that’s what I have. Plus the mattress.
My mother’s voice surfaces.
“You can make anything a home, Lenny. You just have to decide to.”
I haven’t decided yet. I’m giving myself until tomorrow or so.
“Okay, Tessa,” I whisper to the empty room. “I’m here. Now what?”
“Come to me.”
The three words echo in my head.
Right.
I signed a lease, unpacked nothing, but somehow managed to avoid the one thing I drove three thousand miles to do.
Time to fix that.
I grab my sweater off the floor where I dropped it last night and shove my feet into my shoes. My hands are shaking from exhaustion or nerves, I can’t tell, but I head for the door before I can overthink it.
If I’m going to fall apart, I might as well do it in motion.
“Universe, be good,” I whisper, and step out of my apartment.
The morning air is cold when I leave the building, enough to make me regret not grabbing a real jacket, but the sweater will have to do.
I glance at my Bumble Bitch, her yellow paint catching in the morning light, and consider driving.
It would be faster and warmer, but after four days of white-knuckling the steering wheel, I think we both need a break from each other.
Vernonia is small, so small, you could sneeze and miss half the town.
Main Street has a coffee shop, a hardware store, a post office that looks as though it hasn’t been updated since the seventies, and not much else.
I pass a mom-and-pop grocery store with faded awnings and a sign advertising fresh pies.
No flower shop, though.
I keep walking, scanning storefronts as if one might magically appear. There’s a thrift store with dusty window displays, a bar that won’t open for hours, and a tiny library that’s probably charming when you’re not having an anxiety spiral.
Still no flowers.
“Come on,” I mutter under my breath. “What kind of town doesn’t have a single place to buy flowers?”
Apparently, this one.
I could go back to the grocery store—they probably have those sad cellophane-wrapped ones near the checkout—but the thought of showing up at Tessa’s family mansion with gas station flowers makes me want to sink into the pavement.
And over my dead body will I show up with store-bought muffins.
So I’m showing up empty-handed like an asshole.
Great. Perfect. This is going great.
I take a breath and keep walking.
The town gives way to quieter streets lined with trees that are showing off their fall colors like they know they’re pretty. The houses get bigger, more spaced out, and then there it is. The Vaughn mansion.
I stop at the end of the driveway and just… stare.
It’s exactly as imposing as I remember. Maybe more so now that I’m standing here alone, uninvited, in my stress-sweater and the last shreds of hope I have left.
The house is all cream-colored stone with perfectly manicured hedges.
I’ve been here before—once, years ago—when Tessa invited me to spend a holiday break with her.
Back then, it already felt fancy enough to trigger my inner imposter syndrome.
Now my anxiety dial is officially on “crispy.”
My feet don’t want to move. They’re very invested in staying right here, at the edge of the property, where I can still pretend this is a reasonable thing to do, but I didn’t drive across the country to stand at the end of a driveway.
I force one foot in front of the other, crunching up the gravel path. The walk feels impossibly long. Twenty steps. Thirty. By the time I reach the front door, I’m wheezing like a broken kettle, and I’m not sure if it’s from the walk or the panic.
I stare at the door.
Knock, Lennon. Just knock.
But what if…
No. No more what-ifs. I’m here. I’m doing this.
“Universe, please, be good,” I whisper again, and then knock before I can talk myself out of it.
The door swings open, and a guy stands there, in his twenties maybe, black hair and green eyes, wearing trousers and a simple sweatshirt.
Not “mansion staff” at all, but then again, I remember the Vaughns didn’t have staff that looked like staff.
Everyone was dressed as if they were one polite smile away from a lifestyle magazine feature.
“Good morning,” he says, pleasantly. “How can I help you?”
“Hi, uh… hi.”
Great start, Lennon. Very eloquent.
“I, um, wanted to ask if… this is still the Vaughns’ house? Right? The Vaughns? I’m Lennon. Lennon Maes. I…” I hate that I’m rambling already, but if I stop talking, I’ll have to feel how insane this is.
That’s the problem with silence. It leaves too much room for the truth to sit down next to you.
“Well… I went to culinary school with Tessa. I spent Christmas break here years ago. A long time, like, really long time. Thirteen years, maybe? Yeah, probably.”
He opens his mouth, brow already furrowing, clearly about to ask a reasonable question, but my nervous system takes that as a threat and launches the emergency babble protocol.
“I remember the house being so pretty. It’s still pretty. Even prettier, honestly. The setting with all the colorful leaves is gorgeous.”
Please stop talking, Lennon. Please.
I clamp my lips shut so hard that my lipstick makes them stick together for the time the guy needs to inhale, looking mildly concerned.
Same, buddy, same.
“Lennon? Can it be?” The voice hits me straight in the heart.
Nora steps into view behind the guy, dressed in a way only wealthy women can manage, elegant without trying. She looks exactly like an older, polished version of her daughter, so much so that it hurts.
“Nora,” I breathe out, and suddenly my hands are wringing themselves. “Please excuse the… ah… ambush? I guess I could have called in advance.”
Stupid, why didn’t I think of that?
She lets out a soft breath through her nose, and for a few pounding heartbeats, we just look at each other.
Then she strides past the guy and toward me, pulling me into her arms. She’s tall, like Tessa, and I end up with my face smushed against her chest, enveloped in soft fabric, expensive perfume, and something deeply, achingly familiar. A motherly hug.
Comfort I haven’t felt since—nope.
Not thinking about that right now.
Still, tears prick my eyes, and I have to swallow them back down before they betray me. This isn’t my mom. This isn’t even my house. And yet… right now, it feels like the safest place I’ve stood in days.
Maybe weeks.
Maybe longer.
“It’s so good to see you.” Nora’s cool hands settle on my shoulders as she pulls back just far enough to look me over, head to toe, as if she’s checking for cracks.
I pray my concealer is doing its job because the circles under my eyes feel like neon signs screaming, “I haven’t slept properly in months.”
“It’s so good to see you too,” I manage, and it comes out smaller than I want, practically a whisper.
“What are you doing here, honey? Come on in, it’s cold outside.” She ushers me through the doorway, and the warmth of the house wraps around me instantly.
We cross the foyer with polished wood floors and pass under the ridiculous chandelier that probably costs more than my car.