Chapter 32: The Top of the Stairs

The lease lay on the kitchen table on Saturday morning, with a pen set across it.

Nate stood at the head of the table with his hands behind his back.

"I would like it noted," he said, "that this is the most official thing I've ever done."

"You're the housemate," Brody said. "You're not the landlord."

"I'm the witness. Sign, Maggie."

The new lease had one change from the old one.

Under Tenants, the line for the spare room no longer said Brody Kincaid, on behalf of.

It said Maggie Doyle, in the landlord's typing.

Next to it, in Brody's block capitals, was the rent.

Whatever she can afford.

"The landlord didn't write that," I said.

"The landlord wrote a hundred and fifty. I crossed it out."

Brody didn't look up from his coffee.

"I wanted it in ink that I said it first."

I read the line twice.

Then I picked up the pen and signed my name on my own line, in my own hand.

Nate applauded.

He kept applauding until Brody threw a dish towel at his head.

"It's done," I said. "I live here. In writing."

"You've lived here since October."

"Now it's legal."

"What are you doing with the spare room?" Nate asked. "I'll take it, if you're done. I have a bookshelf situation."

"It's my study," I said. "I need a place for the nursing books and a desk with a short leg."

"You're keeping the short leg?"

"It scrapes," I said. "I like how it scrapes."

Brody was watching me over the rim of his mug.

It was his birthday.

He was twenty-four, and he had been awake since five.

He had told the house, repeatedly, that he didn't want anything.

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