Page 9 of Peripheral Vision

Smoothing down the baggy band tee I’m wearing over my denim shorts, I open the front door. “Come in, I’m so sor—” I find the entryway utterly empty. I peek my head out and look around but there’s nothing, save for the crickets and setting sun. When I go to shut the door, my eyes find a package waiting at my feet. For a moment I try to think if I ordered anything and had it forwarded to this address, but the satin black wrapping paper and single golden ribbon tell me otherwise. Precariously, I kneel down, inspecting the package as I do and find no hint of a note or who it could be from. I consider carrying it to the trash can at the end of the driveway to be on the safe side—the contents could be laced with a number of things. It’s evident someone wanted me to take interest. After all, they went through the trouble of making it appealing. Or maybe I’m just being paranoid after the oddity of this past week. Maybe someone left it as a welcome gift and didn’t want to stick around so as not to bother me while I settle in. Still… I put on my shoes and gently edge the package away from my front door with my foot until it’s safely out in the driveway.

I return to the house and continue to work on unpacking, this time immediately working on the dining table before Clara and Grant arrive. I don’t want to be rude and have to have them sit uncomfortably amongst the half-emptied boxes and items strewn about in the living room. The dining room table is much smaller thanthe one I had to sell in order to make one fit at all, going from an eight-seater to four. I hope to host enough to fill out the other three chairs, maybe then the isolation won’t feel so foreboding. I check the clock as I’m screwing on the last leg, noting it to be about seven-thirty p.m. The sun has gone down, but a warm breeze still flows through the sliding door I have cracked open.

I organize the chairs in their respective places before I begin rummaging for my table set and dinnerware that’s still MIA in one of the boxes. Somehow, the box that they’re in didn’t get labeled properly. As I’m on the hunt there is a knock at the door once more, and this time when I go to open it, it’s Clara and Grant bearing a bottle of red, a pan of stuffed manicotti, breaded chicken, and rolls. “Oh, and this was out waiting on the driveway for you.” Grant extends the package I purposely left outside to me, and I grab it as I don’t want to tell them the reason why it was still out there.

“Thank you, please come in. I just finished putting the table together but I’m still looking for the dinnerware, so it might be a few minutes until we can eat. I’m so sorry.” I close the door as they enter and set the package on top of the couch as we approach the kitchen and dining room.

“Not to worry, we foreshadowed that potential problem and brought disposables,” Clara says as she unpacks the shoulder bag she was carrying with serving utensils, paper plates, forks, napkins, and classic red solo cups. “However, we are happy the table is set up. These old bones aren’t what they used to be.”

I try to hide my chuckle behind a polite cough as Clara carefully arranges the plastic plates and cups on the makeshift dining table. "I get that. I mean, I can’t compare at the ripe old age of twenty-two, but the idea of sleeping on the couch over my own bed made me cringe, so I had to prioritize.” Grant grins and pulls a bottle opener from his pocket.

"I can’t say I blame you. Though, depending on the couch, they canalmostbe as comfy as a bed." He looks around at the unpacked boxes still stacked in the corner. "You’ve made good progress. It’sstarting to feel like a home." I nod and glance around, a little overwhelmed by the chaos that still lingers. The newness of the place feels both comforting and slightly suffocating. There’s more to be done, but at least there’s a semblance of order now.

“I swear, moving always feels like the bane of my existence, having done it so much over the years. I hope this is the last time in a long time that I have to,” I say, starting to peel open one of the remaining boxes near the kitchen island. It’s mostly kitchen gadgets: pans, a blender, all the odds and ends you don’t realize are important until you need them. “It’s like I’m crossing one thing off and three new things pop up. The worst part is how the more I unpack, the more I realize I’m missing.” I cringe, thinking of all the things I left behind at Dad and I’s old place, all of the things I chose to get rid of.

Clara glances over with a knowing smile. “You'll find your rhythm soon. You just need a little more time. And a little more wine.” She pops the cork on the bottle of red, pouring generous amounts into the three glasses already set out on the counter.

“Speaking of which,” Grant adds, handing me a glass, “I know the place isn’t large, but how long do you think it’ll take before you’re fully settled? A few weeks? A month?”

“Maybe two,” I answer, taking a sip of the wine. It’s smooth, the kind of drink that makes the stress of moving and everything else feel just a little more manageable. “Honestly, it depends on how soon I can compartmentalize and get things squared away with school as well. In retrospect, finding my dinnerware doesn’t seem as important now.”

There’s a quick moment of silence and I fear that maybe I’ve said the wrong thing; after all, not everyone is attuned to the girl with a dead dad. But then, Clara bursts out laughing. “Of course! But hey, no rush. And if you need a break, we’re happy to distract you with food.” She gestures toward the manicotti, which is giving off a mouth-watering aroma.

I breathe in deeply. “You’re not wrong about that,” I admit, mystomach suddenly reminding me it hadn’t been fed properly all day. “This smells amazing. Thank you both for bringing it.”

“It was a group effort,” Grant replies with a wink. “But don’t thank us yet, we still have to see if it actually tastes good.” We gather around the table, seating ourselves, and begin to plate our meals. As I take the first bite, the tension in my shoulders eases, the warmth of the food and company grounding me for the first time today.

“Okay,” I say between mouthfuls, “I’ll admit it. Ireallyneeded this. But it’s going to be a while before I can have this place feeling like home.”

Clara smiles, raising her glass. “And that’s completely okay. One step at a time.”

Grant gives a mock salute. “We’ll help, of course. You’re not alone in this.” His eyes twinkle with mischief. “Just don’t expect us to rearrange furniture. We’re at the age where lifting a couch requires a solid week of recovery.”

“Noted,” I reply, laughing. “I’ll keep you to light duties, like making sure the wine is never empty.” With that, the conversation drifts to other topics: stories of how Clara and Grant had found each other, the challenges of navigating parental approval on both ends “back in their day” as they put it, and the bizarre things that happen when you least expect them. For a moment, I forget about the cluttered boxes and the stress of settling in. I even almost forgot about the pain of leaving home. The house feels a little less empty now, even if it’s far from being fully unpacked.

After dinner, we linger over wine and conversation, the soft hum of the evening turning into something more comfortable. I pull out my phone and start a playlist, filling the room with music as the last of the food disappears from the table. But I can’t stop myself from glancing at the box still sitting on the couch, the one I’d left out there earlier. I had wanted to open it, but something—some hesitation—kept me from doing it. It wasn’t important, really. I imagine it’s just a housewarming gift from Thea, maybe a gag gift since she’s done justabout anything these days to get me to crack a smile. Still, the suspicion gnaws at me almost as much as my curiosity.

When I look up, Clara and Grant are deep into a story about a vacation mishap involving a cruise, some booze, and bingo, and I decide it can wait a little longer. For now, the house feels like it’s finally beginning to take shape, even if the rest of my life is a bit outside the lines.

But maybe, just maybe, I’ll figure it out.

Chapter

Seven

DYLAN

The next morning, I wake up with a splitting headache. I can’t remember the last time I drank so much. Clara and Grant poke fun at being old timers, but man their bedtime is still much later than my own. I rub my eyes, searching for my phone when I hear aclunkas it falls off of the bed. I roll over to my back, groaning at the sunshine coming in through the window that I didn’t close the curtains on last night. Alaska, always the opportunist, jumps up on the bed with a littleclinkof her food bowl in her mouth, her big brown eyes locking onto mine with a look of sheer determination. She doesn’t even bother with a bark—no, this is far more effective. She just stares at me, bowl dangling, waiting. Expectantly.

“Are you kidding me right now?” I mumble, still blinking away the sleep. “It’s too early for this.” I actually have no clue what time it is and reach for my phone where it’s fallen below my nightstand. But Alaska doesn’t care. She tilts her head, the bowl clinking again. She’s a dog on a mission, and I’m her target. Checking the time, I note it’s 9:34 am. I groan, slowly pushing myself up into a sitting position. My head feels like it’s going to explode, but Alaska’s unwavering gaze is enough to make me move. “Fine, fine. I’ll feed you,” I say, defeated,even though it’s two hours past her normal feeding time. Alaska’s ears perk up, and she practically launches herself off the bed, hitting the floor like a cannonball, ready to lead me to the kitchen.

I drag myself out of bed and shuffle toward the kitchen, each step sending waves of nausea through my stomach. Alaska trots ahead, tail wagging, her excitement palpable. I open the cupboard to grab her kibble, only to find it’s nearly empty.

“Of course,” I mutter, reaching for the last of the food and pouring it into her bowl. She’s already pacing in circles, practically vibrating with anticipation. I set the bowl down and watch as she devours the food like it’s the best meal she’s ever had. She looks up at me between bites, eyes wide and filled with that innocentfeed me morelook that dogs somehow master from day one.

I pour myself a cup of coffee, hoping the caffeine will work its usual magic. I take a sip, but it feels like acid in my stomach. A mistake. I wince and put the mug down, wondering how I ever thought drinking wine was a good idea in the first place. While last night wasn't a blur, I’m still not proud of my current state and I can only hope that I didn’t leave a sour impression on Clara and Grant, even recalling how much I actually laughed. Alaska, now finished with her food, is back by my side, sitting in that expectant way of hers, waiting for the next move. She’s got a sixth sense for when I’m down, and I can already tell she’s about to give me awhat’s next?stare. I scratch behind her ears, trying to get my thoughts together.

I finish my coffee in silence, leaning back against the counter. The headache is still there, but at least the sharp edges are starting to dull as my stomach fights to keep the black sludge down. Alaska starts pacing again, trotting over to the door and giving me a quick glance over her shoulder as if she’s suggesting something.

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