CHAPTER SIXTY-SIX
RHETT
Engagement, Week Two
House hunting reveals that Nora and I disagree about windows, stairs, neighborhoods, and the moral character of open-plan kitchens.
"Walls are useful," she says inside the fourth house.
"Walls block light."
"Walls prevent someone frying fish from attacking the entire home."
The realtor looks between us. "Perhaps we should revisit priorities."
Our list is already three pages.
Near both the arena and Nora's studio, but not owned by either career. Space for an office each. A guest room that does not become a symbol. Good natural light. Privacy without isolation. A kitchen with walls, apparently.
The penthouse could satisfy most requirements after renovation. Selling it would be easier emotionally for Nora and harder financially for any sane person.
At the fifth property, a brick house near the harbor, Nora walks into a second-floor room and stops.
Windows face north. Soft, even light fills the floor.
"Studio," she says.
Across the hall is a smaller room overlooking the water.
"Video room," I say.
Downstairs, the kitchen has a partial wall.
Diplomatic architecture.
The yard is small. The commute is reasonable. The basement could hold training equipment instead of forcing it into shared spaces.
Nora stands on the back steps. "Can you imagine living here after hockey?"
The question would have frightened me once.
I look at the house, then at her.
"Yes."
Not because she is the only life available after the game.
Because I have learned to see a life with rooms of its own.
We make an offer jointly, with equal ownership and separate contributions documented by Maren's terrifying spreadsheet.
The seller accepts.
That night, I walk through the penthouse one last time as an owner who has decided to sell.
I do not grieve only what broke here.
I remember Nora asleep on the sofa, our courthouse flowers in a drinking glass, laughter in the kitchen, the morning after the storm.
A home can contain love and harm without becoming either one completely.
I take the wedding photograph from the drawer.
This time, it will hang in the new house beside a photograph from the second wedding.
Not replaced.
Contextualized.