Chapter 12 #2
He turns to Janet with the easy, open smile of a man who has never once in his life been nervous around a stranger. “G’day, ma’am. I’m Saylor. Come on in.”
We step inside, and I have to physically stop my mouth from falling open.
The foyer. The foyer that was dusty and cobwebbed and smelled like six years of stale air is…
gleaming. The hardwood floors have been cleaned and polished.
The chandelier is lit, every crystal clear, throwing prismatic light across the walls.
Fresh flowers sit on the entry table in a ceramic vase.
The staircase railing has been wiped down and oiled.
It smells like lemon cleaner and fresh paint and something warm underneath—cinnamon, maybe, as if someone has been baking, which is insane because the kitchen didn’t even have a functioning oven last week.
“We’ve been doing some work on the house,” Saylor says to Janet, leading her forward with the proprietary ease of a man giving a tour of his own home.
“Celeste felt like the suburbs would be a better environment for the baby. More space. A yard. The kind of neighborhood where kids ride bikes and people wave at each other.” He gestures toward the living room.
“We’re still in the middle of renovations, but the main living spaces are coming together beautifully. Don’t you think?”
We. He said we. Like this is ours. Like this is something we’re building together.
The living room stops me for the second time.
The sheets are gone. The burgundy sofa has been cleaned and repositioned around the fireplace with throw pillows—where did he find throw pillows?
—and a soft blanket draped over one arm.
The mantel has been dusted and arranged with candles and a framed photo that I recognize from the upstairs hallway.
It’s my parents and me at the shore, me maybe six or seven, mid-laugh, sand on my knees.
Saylor chose that photo. Out of everything in this house, he chose the one where I look happiest.
Janet is taking notes. Small, efficient marks in her portfolio. She doesn’t comment, which I’m learning is her style.
The kitchen. I barely recognize it. The cabinets have new hardware—brushed nickel, modern, a ten-dollar fix that transforms the entire room.
The countertops have been scrubbed until the yellowed granite almost passes for intentional.
The appliances are the same but they’ve been cleaned to glistening, and the window over the sink—the window with the view of the backyard—is framed by new curtains.
Simple. White linen. The kind of curtains I would have chosen, which means Saylor was paying attention to something I said or didn’t say, and I don’t know which possibility undoes me more.
The fridge is running. I open it reflexively and find it stocked—milk, eggs, fruit, vegetables, juice. A container of something labeled leftover pasta in handwriting that is not mine. Saylor’s been eating here. Probably sleeping here. Living here, practically.
“The yard is a work in progress,” Saylor says, guiding Janet toward the back windows.
“But we’ve got the deck stabilized and the garden’s going to come back.
I don’t have a green thumb…I have a whole green hand and I’m picturing tomatoes, peppers, eggplants at least.” He opens the back door and the three of us step onto the deck which, last I saw, was warped and leaning and dangerous.
Now, it’s solid. Level. New boards where the old ones rotted, the railing straight, the whole structure sanded and sealed. He did this. With his own hands.
Sweet. Enormously generous and kind. I focus hard on those friendly adjectives, because my brain is doing this thing all of a sudden where I’m picturing Saylor in weathered jeans, shirtless, sweat dripping down the six-pack that you just know this man has.
“Celeste, are you okay?” Saylor asks, waking me from my fever dream right before fantasy Saylor pours a whole glass of water down his chest and starts running like he’s auditioning for a Baywatch feature.
“Huh? Yeah. Fine.” I am positive I am blushing.
Janet looks at the tire swing hanging from the oak tree. Writes something down. Then, she swivels around, facing the house, using body language to tell us it’s time to move on.
Saylor leads us up the stairs. Instead of the miserable wail I usually hear when I climb the third highest step, there’s nothing but a solid thud when my foot lands.
He skips the second door on the left and moves past it with the smooth redirect of a man who’s been conducting tours in his head for days.
The master bedroom is clean and staged. The French Script loveseat is gone—replaced, somehow, with a simple upholstered bench in cream linen that makes the room look ten years newer.
“Where’s the—” I start.
“Garage,” Saylor murmurs near my ear, low enough that Janet doesn’t hear. “Couldn’t burn it. Thought about it.”
My laugh surprises me. It escapes before I can catch it—short, bright, a sound I haven’t made in days. “Burn it,” I mutter. “I hate that thing.”
Janet glances over. I press my lips together.
“What’s next?” Janet asks.
“The nursery,” Saylor answers matter-of-factly.
The door to the third bedroom is closed. Saylor opens it and steps aside, and I walk in. I’m allowed one small inhale before my throat closes, cutting off my airway. The most aggressive, vicious form of stealing a woman’s breath.
The walls are pale sage green—soft, warm, gender-neutral.
The built in shelves have been sanded and painted white.
A small crib stands against the far wall—simple, wooden, assembled with care.
There’s a small dresser with a changing pad on top.
A rocking chair in the corner by the window, angled so that whoever sits in it can see the tire swing and the oak tree and the garden below.
On the shelf above the crib, a row of children’s books—spines bright, uncracked, new.
And on the wall beside the window, painted in small, careful letters: You are so loved.
I can’t breathe.
I can feel Janet watching me. I can feel Saylor watching me.
I’m standing in a room that didn’t exist a week ago, a room that a man I’ve known for three weeks built for a baby who doesn’t exist yet, and I am trying very hard not to cry in front of a court-appointed evaluator because crying might look like instability when it actually is the most overwhelming act of kindness I have ever received from another human being.
“This is lovely,” Janet says. She writes in her portfolio. “You’ve clearly put a lot of thought into this. I think I’ve seen enough up here. Is there a restroom I could pop into?”
Saylor cringes. “The powder room on the first floor right by the entrance is clean.” Judging by the look on his face, by clean he means functioning. I know for a fact this house has plumbing issues.
The moment we hear footsteps descending stairs, I release the breath I’ve been holding. “Saylor, how in the world—”
He holds up his hands in surrender. “I’m not saying this is the stuff you’ll use. These are hand-me-downs from Forrest’s daughter, Koda. We raided his storage unit and put whatever we could in here.”
“How much if I want to keep it all?” My voice catches. I clear my throat to distract from the sniffle I can’t help. If I’m sick of me crying, I’m sure Saylor is too. But then again I did just lose my best friend of two decades and inherited her unborn baby. Someone has to cut me some slack.
“How much?” Saylor parrots. “I don’t think it’s for sale, Celeste. Forrest let us borrow all these, but it has sentimental value. He probably wants it back. These are memories of Koda, you know?”
Suddenly a truth about parenting becomes crystal clear. It’s not just about creating memories my child will remember. It’s about creating moments that even I want to hold onto.
“That makes sense. I’m sorry. That was insensitive of me to ask.”
“Oh, hey now. No. Not to give myself too much credit, but the room looks great. I’d want to keep it as it is, too. If it were for sale, I’d make sure it was yours.”
I nod. “I know you would. Thank you.”
We move through the rest of the upstairs while Janet pokes around the main floor.
She’s snooping, clearly. I heard the toilet flush at least five minutes ago.
But I’m too lost in Saylor’s narration to care—casually, confidently, pointing out the bathroom renovations, the storage plans, the guest room that could serve as a playroom later.
I most definitely prefer the private tour, because he’s talking about this home like he’s a part of it.
He talks about the neighborhood—the schools, the parks, the fact that the family next door has a daughter who’s two.
He talks about the house like he’s lived in it his whole life, like its history is his history, and I realize, standing behind him in the hallway while Janet spies downstairs, that he learned the house the way he learns everything—not by being told, but by paying attention.
Downstairs again. The living room. Janet is already settled on the edge of the sofa with her portfolio perched on her knee.
This is the interview portion, and I can feel my armor assembling—the executive posture, the measured answers, the woman who has sat across from investors and buyers and board members and never once let them see her sweat.
But Saylor sits next to me. Close. Not touching, but close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating off him, can smell the paint and sawdust and soap, and his proximity does something to my armor that no boardroom has ever managed.
It loosens. Not all the way. But enough. Just enough to make it ineffective.