Epilogue
Aubrey
Ten weeks later...
Alittle over ten weeks after the hearing, I wake to the smell of toast and find Linden in rolled shirtsleeves at the table by the bedroom windows of the main suite. Our suite.
He's labeling shelter bins in block letters. Glancing at a printout for reference, he handwrites the names using a marker with a focus he usually reserves for injunctions and hostile board votes.
The bins are stacked by category on the rug. Pantry overflow. Hygiene. Kid snacks.
I watch him write Grocery Cards, Receipts Inside in letters so clean they look suspiciously court-admissible.
"You know," I say from our bed, "normal people use messy handwriting at eight in the morning."
He looks over his shoulder. No jacket, no watch. His hair is still damp from the shower. I'm in one of my T-shirts and absolutely not impressed by the forearm-marker combo.
Okay maybe a little.
"You're staring at the label," Linden says.
"I'm staring at your crimes against casualness," I retort.
He raises his arms defensively. "Hey, it says what's in the bin."
"It says it like the bin has counsel present," I quip.
His mouth quirks into a grin.
On the bedside table, there's toast. Buttered rye, because the man has preferences even in carbohydrates. There's also his tea and my black coffee.
I sit up and reach for the toast. I don't test my ankle anymore, and the Channel Seven scrape is history.
"That's mine," he says.
I defiantly take a bite. "You can label a new one," I say around the toast.
He caps the marker. "I married a criminal."
I put the toast back on the plate. He comes to the bed, takes the plate from my hand, bites the other corner of the toast, and gives it back.
I stare at him.
He shrugs, "Joint property."
I shake my head. "Oh my god."
He kisses the top of my head, then my mouth, and the kiss tastes like tea and butter.
On the table behind him, one label sits half-finished.
Privacy Hardware, Staff-Only.
I touch his shirt cuff because it's there and because I can. "Marnie sees you write that neatly, she's going to assign you the freezer inventory."
"She already did," he quips.
I laugh. "Of course she did."
He nods. "She said, and I quote, 'If he wants to be useful, make him count peas.'"
"That sounds like Marnie," I agree.
"Yes," he says. "It was peas and frozen chicken thighs."
I smile. "High honor."
He purses his lips. "Well, she seemed unmoved by my dedication."
I giggle again. "Marnie is unmoved by most things before coffee. And all rich men, before proof anyway."
Linden looks down at the bins, then back at me. "Then I'll label accurately."
Lantern House Kitchen smells like burnt coffee, bleach, and onion from whatever soup somebody started too early and abandoned. The freezer rattles. The bulletin board is three layers deep... mostly sign-up sheets.
Dora stays at the curb. Hollis stays by the delivery area and doesn't cross into the kitchen. They keep things quiet, which is the point. No one in a suit appears in the doorway to make residents wonder whether their cereal is now part of a security event.
Inside, it's us, Marnie, two staff members rotating through, and a frankly rude number of bins.
Marnie Kells points Linden toward the pantry shelves. Her expression is set to murder.
"You," she says to him, "don't reorganize. Don't optimize. Don't create a better system because you had an idea near a spreadsheet. Just put the labeled bins where Tasha taped the shelf markers."
Linden looks at the shelf markers. "Yes."
Marnie narrows her eyes. "Say the whole sentence."
"I'll put the labeled bins where Tasha taped the shelf markers," he tells her.
Marnie looks at me. "Aubrey, the grocery credit folders go by the coffee station until Blythe gets here. Receipts stay in the envelopes. Nobody opens the resident names list in this room."
I nod. "Got it."
She points at the smaller stack. "New lockboxes go to the staff office after we count them. Two keys each. Master list with counsel, not with donors or board members."
Linden lifts one of the bins. It's not light. He does it one-handed while reaching for the second.
So effin' hot.
I turn toward the grocery folders and start sorting because I'm an adult woman with a job and a husband who needs to stop having forearms in public.
For the next twenty minutes, we work. Linden places each bin exactly where Tasha's blue tape says, without one helpful adjustment or quietly upgraded label. Pantry overflow. Hygiene. Kid snacks.
Halfway through, his phone buzzes in his pocket. He glances at the screen, thumbs something brief, and then puts it away. He goes back to the bins.
The old version of him would already be three moves into containment somewhere, with his jacket on and making calls in the hallway.
This version keeps stacking.
He catches me watching him. "What?"
I shrug. "Nothing."
He doesn't break his gaze. "Liar."
I shrug. "You labeled accurately."
He doesn't answer. He just picks up the next bin and slides it home.
Marnie passes behind him with a tray of mugs. She glances at the shelves. She glances at him. She doesn't say anything, but the corner of her mouth does the smallest possible thing a Marnie face is capable of producing, and then she's gone, already barking at someone about soup.
Linden doesn't see it.
I see it.
The freezer rattles. The kitchen smells like burnt coffee and abandoned soup.
A young woman comes in for a cup, three sugars, and leaves without making eye contact.
Tasha will find her, or she'll find Tasha.
I sort envelopes.
Linden stacks bins.
We don't talk for a while, and we don't need to.
This is what I choose.
Thanks for reading!!