Chapter 39 #2
The words mattered more than I expected.
My phone vibrated. Isla. I took the call in what would eventually become the new counseling room, sitting on the windowsill while Sunshine went to find the residents whose opinions had just become our first design meeting.
Isla appeared on video wearing a loose jumper with her hair twisted into a messy knot.
Behind her, I recognized the kitchen of her Edinburgh flat.
"You're home." Her expression softened.
"I am."
"How does it feel?"
"Like my refrigerator is judging me for being empty."
"That's normal."
"You've seen your refrigerator."
"I am internationally homeless at the moment."
"You have three homes." I stopped. She smiled.
"Edinburgh, Carolina, Ireland."
"That's excessive."
"Very."
I looked toward the hallway before lowering my voice. "How are you really?"
"Better today." I waited. She rolled her eyes.
"I mean it."
"Good."
"Now stop staring."
"I am not staring."
"You are doing the face." Apparently everyone had faces now. I shifted the phone.
"Want to see Harbor House?" Her expression changed immediately.
"Yes."
I turned the camera and walked her through the rooms. Not the way I once would have, explaining every decision and waiting for approval.
I showed her the spaces and let her ask questions.
She noticed the reversed bedroom doors. The desk placements.
The adjustable window coverings. The counseling room with chairs arranged at an angle rather than directly opposite one another.
"Move that lamp," she said. I looked.
"Why?"
"Too close to the chair."
"So?"
"If somebody gets startled standing up, they'll hit it." I stared. She noticed.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Skye."
"You're good." Her expression softened.
"I know." That was important. I moved the lamp. We reached the family room, where Hawkeye was kneeling beside the baseboard marking an outlet location. He looked up when he heard my voice. His gaze shifted toward the phone. Then he stood.
"Morning, Isla." There was no surprise in his tone, no dramatic pause, and no attempt to keep her talking; he simply acknowledged her. Isla became very still for half a second.
"Hi, Mason."
He had told her his real name at some point. I hadn't known that. Interesting. Hawkeye nodded toward the wall. "Window measurements are in the file Skye's sending."
"Thank you."
"No problem." Then he stepped out of frame and returned to whatever he had been doing. Isla watched the empty space beside me. I kept my expression neutral, though barely.
"Don't," she said.
"I didn't say anything."
"You were about to."
"Apparently that phrase runs in the family now."
"I'm serious."
"So am I."
I continued the tour. She didn't mention Hawkeye again for nine whole minutes. Then, while I showed her the upstairs flexible room, she said, "Is Mason working on all the Harbor House renovations?" I stopped walking.
"Some."
"Why?"
"Construction experience, apparently."
"Okay." I waited. She frowned at me through the screen.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You're irritating."
"Deeply."
She rolled her eyes. I let the subject die because whatever existed there, if anything existed there at all, belonged entirely to Isla.
Hawkeye had been patient with her from the first night outside Croft House, and the best thing he could continue doing was exactly what he'd done five minutes earlier: give her space without pretending space meant indifference.
We returned to work. For nearly an hour we discussed Harbor House standards, the American branch, and the proposed survivor apartments Sunshine had mentioned.
Isla became more animated as the conversation continued, especially when I showed her the draft standards we'd started writing together.
We had created categories around control and choice rather than style: visual access to exits, resident-controlled locks, adjustable lighting, furniture mobility, private storage, acoustic privacy, child-specific spaces, and the right to personalize rooms without asking permission from an administrator.
Halfway through the discussion, Isla went quiet.
"What?" She looked toward something off-screen.
"I've been thinking." That phrase usually meant trouble.
"About?"
"America." My body became very still. I said nothing.
This was exactly the moment when the old version of me would have filled the silence by asking how long she meant, why she wanted to come, whether she was sure, and whether the decision was because of Croft or me.
Instead, I waited. Isla looked back at the screen.
"I want to come." I held my breath before forcing myself to release it normally.
"To visit?"
"For a while."
"Okay." Her eyebrows rose.
"That's all?"
"What do you want me to say?"
"I expected more interrogation."
"I'm evolving."
"Apparently." I smiled. Then she became serious.
"I don't want you misunderstanding."
"I won't."
"I am not moving because you're there."
"I know."
"I'm not running from Edinburgh."
"I know."
"I'm not suddenly fine because I've decided to get on an airplane."
"I know." Her expression softened.
"I want to help build the American branch." Something warm spread through my chest.
"Okay."
"I want to work on the standards. I want to see Harbor House when I decide I'm ready. I want to help with the survivor housing projects."
"Beside me."
"Beside you." I swallowed.
"How long?"
"Maybe three months."
"Okay."