Page 41 of Every Chance After

“Thanks, that’s sweet. Next thing I know, you’ll be calling me Carrots.”

“Ah, no. I won’t do that.”

“Never seenAnne of Green Gables?” she asks.

“Hmm, it sounds like something I’d watch, but I must’ve missed it betweenJohn WickandDie Hardmarathons.”

Her laughter makes me smile.Wait, am I… bantering?Secondary to that phenomenon,am I enjoying it?It’s been so long, I can’t remember the last time I willingly engaged in pleasant conversation with someone outside my family. More surprising is how easily it’s happening with her.

Her laughs end with an uncomfortable wince. “You’re funnier than I thought you’d be.”

“No, I’m not. You bring it out of me.”

“Then, good. It looks nice on you.” Her eyes dance with mine. “But I can’t handle any more giggles. They hurt, you know?”

“Well, if you aren’t laughing, then…” I tease.

Her cats jump onto the couch beside her, and she laughs at the purring welcome party.

“So, learn anything else from your Dad?” she asks, mid-pets.

“Oh, one last thing. It takes as long as it takes.”

She repeats my words, as if memorizing them.

“Yep, healing, walking, getting back to normal, everything,” I say. “So, no rushing it.”

“Got it. How is he? Your dad?”

My eyes narrow, taken aback by the question. “Good, thanks. As bull-headed as ever.”

“So, it runs in the family, then?”

“Absolutely.”

Her side smirk stretches up her cheek, puffing it in an obnoxiously friendly, adorable way. I could elaborate on Dad’s health, and she’d soak up the tedious information regardless of how boring it’d be to her. So, I don’t wait for more questions but leave to bring in her things.

I don’t ask permission to take her suitcase into her bedroom. I set it atop an old chest at the foot of her bed so she doesn’t have to pick it up, and even open it for her, putting her things at arm’s reach. I glance around and spot things I wouldn’t expect in a twenty-five-year-old’s bedroom, not that I’ve been in many.

A puffy, antique quilt in a rainbow of colors monopolizes her bed—something Mom would buy at a craft show.

Oddball art covers her walls. An almost-bad painting of a cat wearing a crown. Random British-looking landscapes with chunky frames.

An old CD player and two short CD towers.

I round the double bed to eye her music. One tower is labeled AM, and the other PM. Upbeat music falls under her morning listens. Early Taylor Swift. Mac Miller. Mozart. Bach. Beyonce. Pharrell Williams. The Beach Boys. Katrina and the Waves. Under PM, she prefers Juice WRLD, Post Malone, Chance the Rapper, Jay-Z, Ruth B, and Norah Jones.

I smile, flipping through the stack of old-school CDs and her eclectic collection. She has everything from jazz to classical to rap.

“Everything okay back there?”

I answer by popping in a CD and hitting play. The sultry sounds of Norah Jones and the delicate taps of a piano fill the small house. The notes appear in my head, making my fingers twitch.

“Nosey Nelly!” She exclaims, laughing.

I travel through the short hallway, passing a large bathroom with a stackable washer and dryer. A closed door across the hall makes me curious, but I don’t go in.

“Thought you might like a little music,” I tell her.

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