Page 20

VERY COMPLICATED PUZZLE

STELLA

I don’t notice the envelope until I’m halfway through my second cup of coffee, sitting barefoot at the kitchen table, sunlight hitting the corner of Harper’s floral placemats.

It’s buried under junk mail—catalogs, an offer for gutter cleaning, and a Highlights magazine. But the return address makes my stomach dip. It’s from the property management group that I rent the house from.

This can’t be good.

I tear it open, bracing myself. And there it is.

The owner has decided to put the house on the market. I’m being given first option to purchase.

The words blur for a second.

I reread the letter twice, then again. Harper’s going to freak. She loves this house. Lilly finally stopped asking if they were going to move again. And now… this.

Buying a house? That’s not something I do. That’s what settled people do. People with plans and roots and a 5-year trajectory. I have camera lenses and backup SD cards, not a mortgage calculator.

I stare at the page like it might offer a second option. A loophole. A trapdoor to duck out of this life decision.

But there’s nothing.

Just a price, an agent’s contact info, and a deadline.

I know Harper is in no place—financially—to buy this place. She will crunch numbers and take some time to figure out that she can’t afford it. But I want her to have this place. Maybe I have options. Maybe buying a house doesn’t mean I have to put down roots.

But damn it; I don’t own property. I’ve never had the desire to.

I toss the envelope on the table and immediately feel guilty. Like it’s not just paper—it’s proof that I’m not cut out for permanence.

Later that afternoon, I try to shake it off, but the spiral has me in a chokehold. I half edit a gallery, forget I’ve already brewed coffee (twice), and find myself pacing the living room with no real destination.

Eventually, I grab my phone. I hesitate for a second, thumb hovering over his name in my recent list.

I don’t text. I call.

It rings once. Twice.

Then his deep voice flows through the speaker, warm and familiar and way too easy on the nerves I’ve been trying to bottle up today.

“Hey, Trouble.”

My mouth tugs at the nickname, even though I’m not in the mood for it.

“Hey,” I say, voice quieter than I intend. “What are you doing?”

“Recovering,” he replies without missing a beat. “Tiny Tot climbers. A new class Maddie made us open up. These four-year- olds have zero fear. And zero filter. One of them asked if I live at the gym because I’m poor.”

I huff out a laugh. “Kids are brutal.”

“They are. But the honesty’s impressive. You okay?”

I pause. “Yeah. I’m fine.”

There’s a long beat of silence.

“That was one word,” he says.

“So?”

“No snark. No sass. Definitely not fine.”

I close my eyes, leaning my head back against the couch cushion. His voice is like a hug I didn’t ask for but can’t bring myself to reject.

“You ever get news that’s… not bad but also feels like someone just handed you a very complicated puzzle with no edge pieces?”

He doesn’t respond right away. He’s good like that. Waits out the silence. Lets me get there myself.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Once or twice. You want to talk about it?”

I press my fingers to my forehead. “Not yet. I just… needed to hear a voice that wasn’t connected to contracts, deadlines, or some life-altering responsibility I didn’t ask for.”

Luke’s quiet for a beat.

“Let me guess—spam call from someone named Brad who thinks you’re ready to diversify your portfolio?”

I let out a small, exhausted laugh. “Brad’s very concerned about my financial future.”

“He called me last week. Offered me crypto, real estate, and inner peace.”

“He must be expanding his services. He offered me a ‘fast-track path to home ownership.’”

“Oof.”

“Yeah.” I take a breath. “Brad’s a lot.”

I smile. It’s small, but real.

“I’m glad you called,” Luke says.

“I didn’t say I was glad yet.”

“But you are, right?”

I sigh. “Maybe a little.”

“That’s what I thought.” He pauses. “Want me to bring you something tomorrow?”

“Like what?”

“You strike me as a muffin girl.”

“Wow. Stereotype much?”

He chuckles. “I bet you like the ones with fruit but hate the ones with raisins.”

“Who puts raisins in muffins?”

“Monsters. Obviously.”

I lean further into the couch, letting my muscles relax just a little. “I did not see this conversation leading down the path of muffins. I’m a fruit muffin girl.”

“Blueberry or banana?”

“Dealer’s choice. Just not lemon poppyseed. I’ve also been known to kill a chocolate muffin in seconds flat.”

He makes a clicking sound with his tongue. “Noted. One emotional support pastry incoming.”

I want to thank him. For knowing how to make me laugh. For not pushing too hard. For just being… steady.

But I can’t get the words out.

Instead, I say, “Thanks for picking up.”

“Always,” he says. “See ya tomorrow, Trouble.”

I end the call and set my phone facedown beside me.

Then I sit in the quiet, wondering how long it takes to stop running when someone starts sounding like home.

It’s almost 1 a.m. when I realize I’ve been standing in the kitchen for twenty minutes, holding a wooden spoon and contemplating whether I remember how to bake anything from scratch.

Turns out, I don’t.

There’s flour on the counter, cinnamon on the floor, and something resembling banana batter slowly congealing in a chipped mixing bowl.

I should be asleep. Or reading. Or watching a bad reality show with subtitles on.

Instead, I’m elbow-deep in a stress bake session I didn’t know I was capable of. Turns out, I’m not the baking is doing nothing for my stress…only making it worse.

Harper shuffles into the kitchen, hair a mess, oversized hoodie sliding off one shoulder, and sleep still stuck to her face.

She squints at me. “Did someone die, or are you just trying to kill us with whatever that smell is?”

I glance at the oven. "It was supposed to be banana bread."

She opens the door, squints at what looks like a deflated beige brick, and winces. "It looks like banana regret."

I drop the spoon into the sink. “I tried, okay? I’m stressed out.”

She looks around the counter, taking in the massive mess I’ve made.

“Maybe stress cleaning will help. I’m not touching this mess, Sis.” She blinks and shakes her head as she slumps into one of the kitchen chairs.

I pull the towel that’s hanging over my shoulder and toss it on the counter. “I got a letter. From the landlord. They’re selling the house.”

That wakes her up.

“What?”

“I have first option to buy.”

She leans back in the chair, the hoodie sleeves covering her hands. “And?”

“And I don’t know what to do. I mean, buying a house? Me? That’s insane. I don’t buy furniture unless it folds.”

“Okay, but this house…” She looks around like it might answer for her. “It works, doesn’t it?”

I look down at my socks. “It does.”

We’re quiet. The kind of quiet that feels heavy, like the kind you get right before a storm.

She stands. Then she nudges me aside to grab two mugs, fills them with both with milk and hands me one.

"If you want to stay, Stella, stay. If you want to go, we’ll figure it out. Lilly and I will be okay. We always are."

“But I don’t want you to have to figure it out. This house is good for you. For Lilly. She’s thriving.”

“She’s thriving because she’s loved. Not because the kitchen has crown molding.”

I sink onto one of the barstools and take a sip. Milk used to be what our dad gave us when we couldn’t sleep. He would warm it up and it was borderline gross. I always drink it anyway. Harper though, she knows I prefer my milk cold.

“I think I might want it,” I say quietly.

Harper doesn’t smile. She doesn’t tease.

She just nods. “Then we’ll make it work. And if you change your mind? We’ll still make it work.”

Her certainty shouldn’t be so comforting. But it is.

Because deep down, I know she’s right. I could make this mine. Not just the house—but the life inside it.

I sip the milk again and watch her open the oven light.

“Burned the bread, didn’t I?” I ask.

She presses the button that turns off the oven. "Oh, yeah. That thing’s toast.”

We laugh, quiet and easy. The kind that sneaks up on you and reminds you’re not alone.

After Harper goes back to bed, I wash the bowls. I sweep the flour. I wipe the counter until it shines.

Maybe she was right. Stress cleaning may be the better option.

Then I open my laptop and look up a mortgage calculator.

It’s not the numbers make my throat tighten…it’s the finality of it all, being rooted in one place, but I don’t close the tab.

Not yet.

I’m not ready to commit.

But for the first time, I’m not running from the idea either.

Maybe scary doesn’t always mean wrong.

Maybe scary just means worth it.