Julia laughed.
“Okay.”
She crouched.
“Actual favorite?”
Naomi nodded seriously.
“Oatmeal raisin.”
Naomi looked horrified.
“That’s terrible.”
“I know.”
“I won’t tell anybody.”
“Thank you.”
Marcus carried the fans across.
He spent most of the morning pulling wet trim and checking the subfloor.
Julia sorted the surviving documents on the stairs.
Eventually Marcus asked.
“What are they?”
Julia looked down.
“Case files.”
“For?”
“Kids.”
Marcus stopped working.
Julia ran one hand across a warped page.
“I was a counselor at the East Haven Youth Center.”
“Was?”
She looked up.
He caught it.
Past tense.
“The center’s closing.”
Marcus leaned against the wall.
“When?”
“End of next month.”
“Budget?”
Julia nodded.
“County funding got cut.”
She lifted a damaged folder.
“These are kids who’ve been in foster care, alternative schools, temporary placements.”
Her voice softened.
“Some of them move so often nobody knows the full story.”
“So you kept it.”
“I tried.”
Julia looked around.
“Then your daughter launched a river through my window.”
Marcus closed his eyes.
“I’m really sorry.”
She smiled faintly.
“That part wasn’t your fault.”
“Pretty sure the water was.”
“The water was.”
She looked toward the folders.
“The part where forty years of youth services disappears because someone moved numbers around on a spreadsheet?”
Her smile vanished.
“That isn’t you.”
Marcus thought.
“How much is recoverable?”
“Maybe half.”
“There’s a document restoration company outside Durham.”
Julia stared.
“A what?”
“They handle fire and flood files.”
“How do you know that?”
“I repair houses.”
Marcus shrugged.
“When people flood houses, paper sometimes gets wet.”
“It’s expensive.”
“I’ll pay.”
“No.”
“I caused it.”
“You are not paying thousands of dollars.”
“I said I’d fix what I damaged.”
Julia stood.
“Marcus.”
He looked at her.
“You don’t owe me this.”
“I know.”
“Then why?”
The question caught him.
He could have said guilt.
Responsibility.
Insurance.
Instead, something honest came out.
“Because yesterday was the first time in a long time I saw somebody having a worse day than me and somehow still make my kid feel better.”
Julia became still.
Marcus continued before he could stop himself.
“You had every reason to yell.”
He looked down.
“And you didn’t.”
“That’s a low bar.”
“Maybe.”
Marcus laughed quietly.
“But my life’s been operating under low bars for a while.”
Julia watched him.
“What happened?”
Marcus’s shoulders tightened.
“My wife left.”
Julia said nothing.
“Two years ago.”
He swallowed.
“Naomi stayed.”
Julia’s expression softened.
“That simple?”
“No.”
Marcus looked toward the wet trim.
“But that’s the version I can say without ruining your Sunday.”
Julia sat back on the stairs.
“My ex-husband and I divorced almost three years ago.”
Marcus looked up.
“So we’re doing this?”
“Apparently.”
She smiled faintly.
“I moved here because this was my grandmother’s house.”
“And the center?”
“Only reason I stayed in town.”
Something in the wording bothered Marcus.
“Was?”
Julia looked down.
He knew not to push.
Not yet.
Four days later, Marcus found a pie on his porch.
Peach.
A folded note rested beneath it.
Please stop being so helpful. It is interfering with my established belief that everyone eventually disappoints me. — J
Marcus read it three times.
Naomi appeared beside him.
“What’s that?”
“Pie.”
“From Julia?”
“Yes.”
“Can we eat it for dinner?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“Because pie isn’t dinner.”
“Who decided that?”
“Civilization.”
Naomi rolled her eyes.
Marcus wrote a reply that evening.
Naomi says this is the greatest pie ever made. She also thinks socks are shoes, so evaluate her judgment accordingly. — M
He slid it beneath Julia’s door.
He was halfway across the yard when he heard her laughing inside.
After that, the notes became normal.
A sentence under his door.
A reply under hers.
Sometimes stupid.
Sometimes serious.
Julia told him her grandmother raised her after her parents died when she was young.
Marcus told her Naomi’s mother had moved to Arizona with a man she met at work.
Julia told him she hated cilantro.
Marcus told her that was a character flaw.
One night Julia wrote:
You act like you’re fine because you’re functional. Those are not the same thing.
Marcus stared at that note for almost ten minutes.
He taped it inside the cabinet where he kept coffee.
Naomi started spending more time next door.
Julia helped her build a volcano for science class.
They baked cookies.
Julia taught her a card game.
Then one evening Julia sat beside Marcus on his porch.
“Naomi talks about her mom.”
Marcus looked over.
“She does?”
“With me.”
His stomach tightened.
“She doesn’t with me.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
Julia hesitated.
“Because she thinks it hurts you.”
Marcus stared at the yard.
“She’s eight.”
“Exactly.”
Julia leaned back.
“She’s trying to protect you.”
“I’m supposed to protect her.”
“She doesn’t know that grief has age limits.”
Marcus laughed bitterly.
“Neither do I.”
Julia looked at him.
“She needs to know she can miss her mother in front of you.”
“What if I can’t handle it?”
Julia answered without hesitation.
“Then don’t handle it perfectly.”
Marcus looked at her.
“Let her see you hurt.”
“She might think I’m falling apart.”
“She might learn adults can hurt and still stay.”
Julia’s voice became quieter.
“That’s better than teaching her everybody has to suffer privately.”
Marcus caught something underneath the sentence.
“You talking about her?”
Julia smiled without humor.
“No.”
He waited.
“Maybe.”
She stood.
“That’s enough emotional maturity for one porch.”
Marcus smiled.
But later that week he learned exactly what Julia had been hiding.
It was almost midnight.
Marcus couldn’t sleep.
He went downstairs for water.
Through the kitchen window he saw Julia sitting alone on her front steps.
Her face was buried in her hands.
She was crying.
Not dramatically.
Quietly.
The kind of crying people save until they believe nobody is watching.
Marcus knew that cry.
He put on shoes.
Crossed the yard.
Sat one step below her.
Julia did not look up.
“You saw me.”
“Yes.”
“You could have pretended you didn’t.”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
Marcus thought.
“Because somebody told me once that people shouldn’t do all their hurting alone.”
Julia laughed weakly.
“You use my own advice against me.”
“I’m efficient.”
She wiped her face.
Marcus looked toward the street.
“You want me to go?”
“No.”
They sat quietly.
Finally Julia spoke.
“I’m losing the house.”
Marcus turned.
“What?”
“The youth center closes in five weeks.”
“I know.”
“That means I don’t have a job.”
She exhaled.
“And this house isn’t actually free and clear.”
Marcus waited.
“My grandmother took a reverse mortgage near the end.”
“For medical care?”
Julia nodded.
“I’ve been making it work.”
“But without income…”
“I’ve got maybe two months.”
Marcus stared toward her house.
“Sell?”
“Probably.”
“And then?”
She laughed bitterly.
“That’s where it gets complicated.”
“How?”
“There’s a job.”
“Where?”
“Virginia.”
“How far?”
“Six hours.”
Marcus felt his chest tighten.
“When do they need an answer?”
“End of the month.”
He looked down.
“That’s soon.”
“It’s a good job.”
“Then why are you crying?”
Julia looked at him.
“Because two weeks ago it sounded like freedom.”
“And now?”
Her eyes filled again.
“Now there’s a little girl next door who knocks on my door before breakfast.”
Marcus swallowed.
Julia continued.
“And there’s her father who apparently thinks repairing one water-damaged room requires becoming permanently involved in my life.”
Marcus smiled faintly.
“Very thorough warranty.”
Julia laughed.
Then became serious.
“But I can’t build my life around feelings.”
“No.”
“I need income.”
“Yes.”
“I need stability.”
“Yes.”
“I need to stop pretending something is going to magically fix itself.”
Marcus sat forward.
“How much?”
She frowned.
“For what?”
“The mortgage.”
“Marcus.”
“How far behind?”
“Don’t.”
“I fix houses.”
“That is not relevant.”
“It is.”
He pointed toward the building.
“Houses are math.”
“People aren’t.”
“No.”
Marcus looked at her.
“But sometimes people panic because they think there are only two options.”
“What options?”
“Lose the house or sell.”
“That is basically where we are.”
“Maybe.”
He shook his head.
“But houses usually have a third door.”
Julia looked tired.
“What does that mean?”
“Give me a week.”
“For what?”
“To look.”
“You’re not paying my mortgage.”
“I didn’t say that.”
“You were thinking it.”
Marcus said nothing.
Julia pointed at him.
“No.”
“Fine.”
“That was too fast.”
“I’m excellent at agreeing.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
Marcus smiled.
“One week.”
Julia stared at him.
“Why?”
He could not hide behind practicality anymore.
“Because I don’t want you to leave.”
The words sat there.
Julia looked down.
Marcus rubbed his palms together.
“I’m not asking you to stay for me.”
He spoke quickly.
“I know we barely know each other.”
“We’ve known each other three weeks.”
“That somehow sounds worse.”
Julia almost smiled.
Marcus continued.
“You have to do what’s right for you.”
He looked at her.
“But I’d rather spend a week trying to create another option than watch you leave because nobody bothered looking.”
Julia’s eyes filled.
“You barely know me.”
“I know enough.”
“What do you know?”
Marcus thought.
“I know you laugh at terrible moments.”
Julia smiled.
“You kept records for kids nobody else remembered.”
He continued.
“You listen to my daughter when she talks about things I’m too scared to talk about.”
His voice roughened.
“And you somehow made my house feel less empty without ever stepping inside it.”
Julia looked away.
“One week.”
Marcus exhaled.