room.
The sight of that cardigan did something to me the perfume bottles had not.
It was soft and ordinary and careless.
She had not just moved into my room.
She had settled.
“Ryan,” I said. “Why is Cassie’s stuff in my bedroom?”
He sighed.
That sigh almost ended the whole thing right there.
It was the sigh of a man inconvenienced by the person he was hurting.
“Dad, Cassie needs this room,” he said. “Your stuff is down the hall.”
Cassie stepped forward.
“Don’t make it dramatic,” she said. “You need to be closer to the bathroom anyway. This makes sense.”
I looked toward the storage room.
My clothes had been shoved into the narrow closet.
My shaving kit sat on a cheap dresser.
Patricia’s wedding photo leaned against the wall beside folded socks.
My father’s watch, the one he gave me when I turned thirty, lay on top
