Chapter Forty-Five—Andrew
The deal is more or less done.
Ethan saying we'll be in touch in that voice that means we won.
Connor hugs Riley before he leaves. Longer than I expected.
“Come visit,” Riley tells him.
“You come visit,” he says.
He looks at me on his way out. Nods once. I nod back. That's enough.
Ethan and Liam take off to some restaurant Liam's been watching all week. Riley waves them off from the couch. Tells them to bring something back.
I clean up the coffee cups. Put the extra chairs back. Open the curtains all the way so the light comes in.
Then I walk out to the living room and stop.
Riley is on the couch. Laptop open. She doesn’t hear me come in.
She’s got three tabs going. I can see from here: a product page, a comparison spreadsheet, a registration form with fields half-filled. She clicks between them with the focus of someone who’s been at it for a while.
I get closer.
Baby registry.
Strollers. Car seats. A convertible crib in white. She’s built a whole comparison sheet—columns, check marks, a few question marks where she hasn’t decided yet. One tab has a notes field: needs to fit through a standard doorway. She thought about the doorway.
I pull a chair over and sit.
She startles. Closes the laptop halfway on instinct. Then she sees it’s me and goes still—deciding, I think, whether to explain herself.
She doesn’t.
“I don’t know why I’m picking out stuff I don’t have a space for.” She does a small laugh, the kind that covers embarrassment. “It’s stupid. I was just—”
“You weren’t browsing,” I say.
She looks at me.
I stand. “Come with me.”
“Where?”
“One hour. Just come.”
She closes the laptop the rest of the way.
We go while everyone else is still out.
I leave a note on the counter—back soon—and we take the elevator down. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. That’s one thing I’ve figured out about her: she reads when to wait.
The strip drops away fast—a couple miles and it’s just streets. Real streets. Trees. Yards. A school on a corner with a mural that’s been there long enough to fade at the edges. A woman walking a dog, not looking at her phone.
Riley watches out the window. She has one leg tucked under her. Both hands around her cup.
I drive east another ten minutes and turn onto the street I’ve come back to three times since I found it.
Corner lot. Pale green paint that looks like an accident and somehow works.
Yard big enough for kids to run and play.
A gate on the side you can see through into the back—a tree with actual shade, a patio with a table someone left when they moved.
For-sale sign at the curb.
I pull over and park.
Riley looks at the house. Then at me.
“How long have you been looking?” she asks.
“Since the night you told us.”
A pause. “That was weeks ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Andrew.” Not quite an accusation. “You didn’t say anything.”
“I needed to know it was possible first,” I tell her. “Before I said anything to anyone.”
She turns back to the house. The porch has a hanging basket, dried out and empty. Whatever was in it is long gone—someone left in a hurry, or just let it go. I notice things like that.
“Do the others know?” she asks.
“No.”
She looks at me.
“You needed to see it first,” I say. “Before Liam makes it a whole project. Before Ethan runs numbers.” I wait a beat. “Your choice before it’s everyone’s plan.”
She looks at the house. The street is empty. A sprinkler kicks on two yards down. A car starts somewhere behind us and pulls away.
“I have a Portland lease,” she says.
“I know.”
She's quiet for a second. “I moved there because I didn't know what else to do.” She says it like she's just figured that out.
“After everything. I just—picked a city and went. Made a friend. Got a job I actually like. Figured out where to get good coffee.” A small exhale. “Thought that counted as a life.”
“Yeah.”
“My whole life is supposed to be there.” She looks at the house. “Except Connor's here. And you're here. And Ethan and Liam are—” She stops. “I guess I built a whole life in the wrong city.”
I don't say anything.
“That's a terrifying thing to realize,” she says.
“Probably.”
She turns to look at me. “You're not going to argue with any of it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you already know,” I say. “Portland was somewhere to go. This is somewhere to stay.”
“Four people and a baby, Andrew. In a house. In Vegas. Connor barely—”
I think about how to say it. I'm not fast with words. I don't build arguments the way Ethan does, or talk my way through things the way Liam does. I just know what's in front of me.
“You weren't browsing a baby registry,” I say. “You were building a home. You just didn't have anywhere to put it yet.”
She turns back to the house.
I watch her and wait.
Then her hand moves to her stomach.
She does it without thinking now. Started maybe two weeks in—a reflex, like checking something she wants to keep close. I've watched it a hundred times. She never notices she's doing it.