Page 67 of Dream Chaser
“Pick a room, Iz,” he says as he slides out the door.
While Skinner takes Wile out to pee, grumbling about the snow and muttering sweet nothings to my dog like they’re battle buddies, I’m left staring up the stairs at the three rooms on the third floor.
They’re newer, bigger, with fresh paint and bright windows. One even has a bathroom that looks like it belongs in a boutique hotel—all subway tiles and brass fixtures. Lexi called dibs on the “attic vibe” room for whenever she visits. Mags, the one next to the master.
But when I turn back and look at the second floor—this floor—my eyes land on the door just across the hall from the kitchen.Aunt Isobel’s room. It hasn’t been used since she passed, but Mom and Dad no doubt did something in there.
The walls are still the soft sage green, but the faded quilts have been swapped out for a creamy linen duvet and matching shams. The bookshelves are dusted and organized.
I turn on a little lamp on the nightstand, and it casts golden light across the exposed brick wall. The fireplace still stands, original and a little cracked, but with fresh logs stacked nearby and a new grate waiting. I love that about old places like this—the fireplaces in most rooms. I know, I know, save the trees and all, but wood is renewable and nothing beats the smell.
It’s warm, familiar and, more than anything, it’s practical.
Wile doesn’t need to navigate stairs or ride his custom “doggie elevator” every time we move floors. He deserves better.
I inhale the faint scent of lavender and wood polish and nod once to myself. “This is it.”
By the time I hear the door open again, I’m tucking in the corners of my duvet. The closet door is open, one suitcase already unzipped and half-empty beside me. I’m mid-fold with a soft sweater when I hear Wile’s nails on the floor and behind him,GriffonSkinner.
“Well,” Skinner says, a little out of breath, “Wile found his favorite pee spot, so your side walkway is now officially his.”
I glance over my shoulder to find him standing there with snow melting in his hair, cheeks red from the cold. He looks at me, then the room, then back to me.
“You picked it,” he says.
“Easy for Wile. And … it feels right.”
He doesn’t say anything, just steps past me, drops a second box on the foot of the bed, and pulls out a few things. A stack of T-shirts. One hoodie. A number 54 Jersey from his first year. He doesn’t ask. Doesn’t make a joke. Just walks over to the closet and starts hanging it up.
Something about that simple act—the quiet normalcy of it—hits me in the sternum.
I swallow, blinking too hard, too fast.
Skinner glances back. “You okay?”
“Yeah.” I clear my throat and reach for the next sweatshirt. “Just … weird seeing this place come back to life.”
He nods, lifts the hoodie to the hanger, then says softly, “Maybe it was missing you.”
I don’t reply, but when he turns back to the closet, I smile.
Because yeah … maybe it did.
All this, him in here, it’s … a lot. Too much. Too … personal.
I turn and look out the window. “The snow is never going to stop, is it?”
“That your hint to send me on my way?” He chuckles.
“I’m sure you have things to do.” I turn and smile. “Pack for your trip home.”
He shakes his head. “Got everything I need down there.”
“Clean out the fridge?”
He shakes his head.
“Cupboards?”
