Chapter 21: The Drawer

Flora's apartment smelled like fresh paint and new carpet.

I walked in at eight on Friday morning, still in my scrubs from the night shift.

Stood in the middle of her empty living room.

The ceiling was white again.

The walls were a pale warm yellow she had picked from a chart in September.

The floor had been sanded back to honey-colored wood.

The contractor stood in the kitchen with a clipboard, waiting for a signature.

Flora walked from room to room with her hands on her hips.

She touched the windowsill, and the radiator, and the new bathroom door.

Then she turned and looked at me, and her face was unreadable.

"It's done," she said.

"It's beautiful."

"It's empty."

She went into the bedroom, and I followed.

The room had a window facing the alley, a closet with no hangers, and bare walls the color of butter.

She stood in the center of it.

"Three years I lived with Rachel in a different place," she said.

"Everything was gray and white and had to match. I didn't pick a single thing."

"You picked this."

"I picked this."

She turned slowly, taking it in.

"And I don't want to sleep here alone."

My heart did something painful.

"Flora."

"Not because I'm scared. Because I don't want to wake up and not have you down the hall."

She came over and took my hands.

"I want to keep this place. I want my plants and my drafting table and my own mug."

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