Page 65 of Click of Fate

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.

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