CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
RHETT
Month Eight
Nora comes to the penthouse on a Sunday afternoon.
Not to collect equipment. Not because of a storm. Not because someone is injured.
For dinner.
She stands in the foyer for a long moment after I open the door. Her gaze travels over the bench, the stairs, the vase now filled with fresh eucalyptus.
"You kept it," she says.
"You liked it."
"I took the old branches."
"I bought new ones."
"Without a stylist?"
"The florist asked questions I found invasive."
She smiles, but her shoulders remain tense.
"We can leave," I say.
"No. I want to do this."
We move through the rooms slowly. Her office is no longer storage. I installed new shelving after asking for dimensions, but the space remains empty.
"I thought you said you wouldn't change it," she says.
"I said your belongings were safe. I needed the room not to become a shrine. The shelves are removable."
She runs a hand across the wood. "You built these?"
"With supervision. Mr. Alvarez values structural survival."
In the bedroom, both nightstands remain. The blue shoebox is gone because she took it. Our wedding photograph sits in a drawer, not displayed and not destroyed.
"Where do you sleep?" she asks.
"Here."
"Was that hard?"
"At first. Then it became a bed instead of evidence."
We cook together. She chops vegetables. I follow the recipe without improvising. At the table, we discuss her publisher's schedule and my upcoming road trip.
After dinner, Nora walks to the windows overlooking the harbor.
"I can imagine being here again," she says.
Hope rises.
I hold it carefully. "Tonight?"
"For tonight."
"Good."
She turns. "You don't want to ask more?"
"I want more. But you offered tonight."
She crosses the room and kisses me.
Later, we sleep in our old bed as two people who chose a new night.
In the morning, she leaves for her apartment.
I do not call it leaving home.