53. Maeve
Maeve
The apartment feels different the second the front door closes behind Keaton. Not unsafe.
Just... quieter.
I stand in the middle of the living room for a long moment, listening. The refrigerator hums softly from the kitchen. Somewhere outside, an elevator dings before the doors slide shut again.
The security monitor mounted beside the television continues cycling through the four camera feeds Keaton showed me two nights ago. The memory stays with me as I wander into the kitchen.
His coffee mug is still sitting beside the sink. I'd offered to wash it before he left.
He'd blinked at me like I'd suggested dismantling the internet. "I'll do it when I get home."
When I get home. Not if. When. The tiny certainty hidden inside those words settles warmly in my chest.
I rinse the mug anyway.
He'll probably notice. The thought makes me smile even more.
Now...I simply wander. I straighten the blanket we'd left on the couch this morning. Open the refrigerator. Close it again.
Stand in front of the bookshelf and laugh quietly when I remember every novel is arranged alphabetically.
Eventually my feet carry me toward the hallway. Toward the room I haven't walked into since yesterday morning.
The master bedroom. I pause in the doorway. Nothing has changed. The bed is perfectly made. The dresser is empty except for the lamp. The walls are bare. No photographs. No artwork. No evidence that anyone has slept here in months.
It doesn't feel sad. It feels...abandoned. My chest tightens as his words come back to me.
The room stopped functioning.
At the time I'd understood what he meant. Standing here...I think I finally understand how much it cost him. He hadn't kept the room because he couldn't let Cindy go. He'd left it exactly as it was because every time he looked at it, his brain replayed the same memories.
So he adapted. Found another room. Kept living. But never came back.
I walk slowly to the center of the room and turn in a slow circle. "This just won't do."
The words leave my mouth before I realize I've spoken them aloud. I pull my phone from my pocket.
Rachel answers before the second ring. "Please tell me you're calling because Keaton finally admitted he's completely obsessed with you."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "No."
"Darn."
"I need your help."
Rachel's teasing disappears immediately. "What's wrong?"
I glance around the bedroom again. "I hate his bedroom."
Silence. "...Explain."
"It's not because it's ugly."
"Okay..."
"It's because no one lives in it."
I tell her what Keaton said. About the room stopping functioning. About moving into the guest room because it was easier than teaching his brain somewhere new.
Rachel grows quieter with every sentence. When I'm finished, she lets out a slow breath. "Oh..."
"You knew."
"I knew he'd never gone back in there." Her voice softens. Neither of us speaks for a moment.
Then an idea quietly begins taking shape. "What if..."
Rachel laughs. "Oh no."
I grin. "I want to fix it."
"The bedroom?"
"Not just the bedroom." I look around again. "I want it to feel like someone lives here."
Rachel is quiet for all of two seconds. "There's a furniture store about five minutes from the apartment."
"I don't really want to leave."
"Good."
I blink. "What?"
"I said good." She sounds almost proud. "You shouldn't stop living because Ronan is hiding, but you also shouldn't do something you're not comfortable with just to prove a point."
Relief settles through me. "I was hoping you weren't going to tell me I was overreacting."
"Absolutely not." I hear keys jingling on her end of the line. "Here's what we're going to do."
My smile grows. "I'm listening."
"I'm going to video call you."
"Rachel..."
"You'll walk through the showroom."
"I don't know the first thing about furniture."
"I do. You pick what feels like Keaton."
"What if I don't know what that is?"
Rachel doesn't hesitate. "Oh, honey..."
"You already do."
****
Rachel digs her spoon back into the carton of mint chocolate chip before handing it toward me.
"I still think the lamp should've gone on the other side."
I laugh, taking another bite of my own bowl. "You said that before we moved it."
"I know."
"And after we moved it."
"I also know."
"And when we moved it back."
Rachel points her spoon at me. "I've accepted defeat. That doesn't mean I have to like it."
I smile as I look around the room. It doesn't even feel like the same space anymore.
The heavy, dark comforter had been replaced with soft gray linens and a thick knit blanket folded neatly across the foot of the bed.
The old dresser was gone, replaced by something lighter that actually matched the hardwood floors Keaton had loved enough to rent the apartment in the first place.
We'd found two nightstands that weren't identical—Rachel insisted matching furniture made rooms look like hotel suites—and she'd talked me into a reading chair tucked beside the window.
There was still plenty of open space. It still felt like Keaton. Just...warmer. Like someone actually lived here.
I trace the edge of my bowl with my spoon. "What if he hates it?"
Rachel looks at me like I've asked whether the sky is green. "He won't."
"You don't know that."
"I know Keaton."
"He likes everything organized."
"It is organized."
"He likes things practical."
Rachel gestures around the room. "The bed functions. The dresser functions. The lamp functions."
I can't help smiling. "You're making fun of him."
"I'm making fun of you." She reaches over and nudges my knee with hers. "Maeve... this isn't about furniture."
I look back around the room. No. It isn't. "I just..." The words catch somewhere in my throat. "He told me the room stopped functioning."
Rachel's smile softens. "I know."
"What if he walks in here and it still doesn’t function?" The room falls quiet. I stare down at the melting ice cream in my lap. "I just wanted him to have somewhere he'd want to sleep again." My voice is barely above a whisper.
Rachel reaches over and squeezes my hand. "I think that's exactly what you've given him."
Something creaks in the hallway. Neither of us notices.
"I'm still nervous."
"You've been nervous since the delivery truck."
"I know." I sigh.
Before Rachel can answer, a familiar voice drifts through the open bedroom door.
"I love it."
Everything inside me stops. I look up so quickly I nearly drop my bowl. Keaton stands in the doorway, still dressed in black tactical gear. His duffel hangs from one shoulder. His glasses have slipped slightly down his nose.
He looks tired. He looks like he's been awake for far too many hours even though he hasn’t been gone that long.
And he's looking around the room the way someone looks at a place they don't quite recognize.
My heart drops into my stomach. "I..." I set the bowl aside so quickly the spoon clatters against the nightstand. "I didn't know if you'd—"
Before I can finish, his eyes find mine. "I love it." He says it again.
Not to Rachel. Not to the room.
To me.