Chapter 24: Upstairs

My parents went to their hotel at nine, and my father was asleep in the lobby chair before the porter reached for the bags.

When I got home, the door of my flat was open and the hall light was on.

Owen was standing in my kitchen with his gray duffel at his feet and a frying pan in his hand.

"You said you'd visit it," he said.

"I did."

"I thought it should have a permanent address."

I looked at the duffel, and the pan, and the box of books sitting by the radiator that had not been there that morning.

"This is what you did," I said.

"Part of it."

"You moved down a floor."

"I asked you last Sunday. You said, and I'm quoting, 'Mm, yes, bring the pan.'"

"I don't remember that."

"It's in my notes."

He had the crooked, careful look he got when he was afraid of being too much.

I crossed the kitchen and took the pan out of his hand and put it on the stove.

Then I kissed him.

It was slow and warm and entirely awake, and when I opened my eyes his were already open, watching me.

"You can say no," he said against my mouth. "I'll carry it all back up. It's one flight."

"Don't you dare."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's the best yes I've got."

He let out a laugh into my hair.

We unpacked together.

His shirts went into the drawer I had cleared on Tuesday without telling him why.

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