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Thirty-Three

“I thought your big, strong boyfriend was supposed to come help us move this stuff?” Juniper grunts, holding the end of my desk by herself while Kayla and I struggle with the other side.

Yes, we regularly throw human beings into the air at football and basketball games but can barely handle this desk. In our defense, our end of the desk has drawers. Empty drawers, but still, way more wood than her side.

“He said he would stop by when he could. He’s watching Mara right now.” It would have been helpful to use the minivan to move things like my desk, but babysitting duties call. I used to think that Mara was old enough to watch herself, but now after knowing her, I’m not so sure it would be the safest thing.

Kayla drops her arms, giving the desk’s weight to me. I drop it accidentally. “Sorry. Ever since Coach made me a flier permanently, I feel like I have two limp noodles for arms. They’re not getting enough exercise.”

Juniper sets down her end. “I ask you to carry me all the time and you refuse.”

“You’re one inch shorter than me so you think you deserve to be carried around everywhere? Who are you, Ariana Grande?”

I groan. “Can we save the marital dispute for after we get the desk up the stairs?”

“Wait, are we really fighting?” Juniper asks, her brows low.

“No, I thought we were just putting off taking the desk upstairs,” Kayla says.

Juniper relaxes. “Oh, okay. Same page.”

Laughing, I pick up my end again. “Let’s go.”

“Ugh,men. Can’t live with them, can’t live with them,” Juniper grunts.

We carry the desk up the stairs slowly and awkwardly, struggling to maneuver it over the banister to walk it back to my room. But we make it without breaking the desk! And my room is starting to look like a real room, like someone might live in it for more than just a few moments at a time when she’s unpacking boxes.

Before she went to work, my mom helped us load the desk into Kayla’s car, which was an amazing feat that I did not think could be accomplished. I lost two bucks over it. Kayla, who has a better understanding of the Narnia-wardrobe-like qualities of her car, understandably won that money. My mom also slid the boxes with my bed frame on top of the desk and said something like “Tetris!” afterward. After securing both the mattress and box spring on the top of the car, we were good to go. Juniper had to sit on my lap, but we made it work with Kayla only a little jealous.

Now, Kayla wipes sweat from her forehead. “I’m gonna smack Holden when he gets here.”

“At least he’s nothing like Devon. He would have shown up after we’re done and then asked for Chinese food to compensate him for his time,” Juniper says.

“The woooooooorst,” Kayla sings, flopping onto my bed.

A knock on the door startles me. I pull my phone from my pocket but see no texts from Holden saying he’s here or on his way oranything—like, seriously, where is this kid? I pound down the stairs, dragging Juniper and Kayla with me because likehellam I going to open a door by myself with a stranger and the pitch black of winter ready to greet me.

But it’s not a stranger. It’s Corrine, with a bundle of flat square packages in her hands.

I frown, not because I’m unhappy to see her—I’m actually a little giddy—but because I’m confused. “Hey?” I step back to let her in. “I thought you were working.”

She shivers a little, wiping her feet on the doormat outside, and then comes inside. “Marisa let me leave early.”

“Hi, Corrine,” Juniper says with a smile. “Whatcha got there?”

Kayla rushes forward to help her with the packages, setting them on the long table my mom and I moved in last weekend.

“Just some wall art.” She pulls her jacket off and leaves it on a dining room chair. “Obviously not for the exposed brick wall.” She blows a kiss to it, acting more normal than she has the last few months. More normal than I deserve, at least. “It’s perfect how it is.”

I think part of her wants to skip the awkwardness and I’m not mad at that.

Kayla tears into the packages, revealing a bunch of kitschy frames, no doubt courtesy of a Thrifty shopping trip. There are four total, and each one is filled with a gorgeous photo of... the murals. My grandma’s murals that Holden took photos of before my mom and I bit the bullet and painted over them.

I can’t breathe.

“Holden helped me....” She waits for my response. “I hope that’s okay.”

I pull her into a tight hug, my throat threatening to close and hot tears threatening to spill like a dam. “I love them so much.”