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She shakes her head walking over to her bike and scooping it up. “I have homework.” She smiles sweetly. “And Scotty said she wanted to talk to you alone anyway.”

By my side and out of Ford’s sight, I flip her off.

She grins, pushes her bike a few steps then calls over her shoulder, “Don’t be late for dinner, Dad.”

His whole face smiles as he watches her ride away. “She’s in a good mood.”

“She’s something all right.”

The man installing the cabinets waves me over from the porch. “All done,” he says as the two crew members load tools into their truck. “Check her out.”

Inside, despite the grafittied floors and bare walls, it’s degrees cozier. The cabinets have a bright finish with gold hardware on the bottom; instead of cabinets up top, it’s simple open shelving.

I run a hand over one of the doors and open it, not bothering to hide my smile as I imagine stacks of colorful dishes and mismatched mugs. “I love them.”

The man grins, handing me a clipboard. “Always good to hear. Sign here and here,” he says. “We’ll email the bill.”

There’s no lingering small talk or handshaking. He takes the clipboard, picks up a tape measure, and he’s out the door.

“Looks good,” Ford says, leaning against the edge.

I open a drawer, empty for me to fill with temporary silverware.

“It does.” I lean into him; he wraps an arm around my shoulders.

It’s hard to believe this bright space filled with colors and modern furniture and prints was ever the place it started out as. Though the walls are bare and the bookshelves only house Zeb’s old records, it breathes with life.

“Have time for the birds?” I ask.

He clutches his chest in exaggerated gusto. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Hand in hand, we walk to the porch, sitting so our legs dangle over the edge and our knees touch.

“That one,” Ford says, pointing to the large blue bird on the feeder.

“Blue jay,” I say with a know-it-all tone.

“That?”

I scoff. “Nuthatch.”

He grins, bumping my shoulder with his. “You trying to seduce me, Scotty Armstrong?”

“Is it working?”

“I don’t know,” he coos with a handsome face and ridiculous tone to his voice. “You ready to say you’re mine?”

Like a switch flipped, I’m irate. He’s putting me in an impossible position. It’s not just about the ridiculous title he seems so hellbent on, it’s about me finally getting out of here. Saying yes to him means saying no to everything I’ve been working toward. My out. My sanity.

“Why?” I demand. “I’m leaving. Why can’t we just be whatever we are without all of this?”

He shrugs. “Because I want it.” Then: “And I don’t want you to leave. I’m pretending you’re not, remember?”

I make an annoyed sound. I have to leave. That’s the whole stupid point of this whole stupid thing.

“Because you’re delusional and playing make-believe I’m supposed to feed into your teenage insecurities?” I demand.

He snorts. “Sure. I like that.”