Chapter 4: The Kitchen Island

Sebastian's townhouse was on a quiet block off Rittenhouse Square, behind a black door with a brass knocker shaped like a pineapple.

I carried in two suitcases and a box of books.

It was everything I owned that mattered.

He took the box out of my hands before I could object.

"Third floor," he said. "My room. You get the left side of the closet and the left side of the bed."

"One bed."

"My uncle checks."

"Does he check the bathroom too?"

"He once counted my toothbrushes," Sebastian said. "In 2019."

I laughed before I could stop it.

He glanced back at me from the stairs, and for a second he looked almost pleased with himself.

The bedroom was bigger than my whole apartment.

There was a dark wood bed, a reading chair and a wall of books.

The window looked out over bare trees and the lit-up square.

There was one bed.

It was exactly as large as I had been afraid it would be.

I opened the closet.

Half of it was empty, and the hangers were already spaced for coats.

"You cleared it," I said.

"On Wednesday."

"Before you knew I'd say yes."

"You came back to the elevator twice to look at the contract."

"I was checking the font."

"You were checking the numbers."

"Both."

He put the box on the chair and stood with his hands in his pockets, looking at the floor, then at me.

"I'll sleep on the couch downstairs when he isn't here," he said. "You'll have the room."

"You can't sleep on a couch for four months."

"I've slept on worse."

I put a sweater into a drawer and tried to think of something to say that wasn't about his shoulders.

He cooked dinner.

I hadn't expected that.

He stood at the stove in his shirtsleeves with his glasses pushed up into his hair.

He stirred a pot of garlic and white beans the way he did everything, exactly and without hurry.

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