Page 125 of Soft Flannel Hank

When he walked up the mudroom steps, he had a bouquet of tightly-bunched red roses held in his fist. He set them on the bench next to him as he removed his boots, smelling something amazing coming from the kitchen. He felt a lightness in his chest that he hadn’t felt in a long time. It was a wonderful thing to come home to the smell of someone else having cooked for you, having cared enough about you to feed you.

Esther popped her head around the door frame and smiled widely. “You’re home!”

It was wonderful to come home to another person who called your house their home.

He nodded, pulling his second boot off and setting the pair underneath the bench.

“I’m trying a new recipe from Magda. It’s called picadillo. I hope you like olives. I should have asked if you liked olives. Lots of people don’t, I know, and—”

He silenced her with a kiss. He had learned this about her, that when she was nervous, Esther talked nearly stream of consciousness, her words tumbling out without a filter as they popped into her brain. He thought it funny that she would ramble when she was nervous and say too much while he would completely clam up and say nothing at all.

“I like olives,” he said, his mouth hovering over hers.

“Oh, good,” she breathed.

“Here,” Hank said, handing her the roses. “Third time’s a charm.”

“What?” she asked.

“Never mind. I wanted to bring you flowers. I’ve wanted to bring you flowers for a long time.”

“That’s so sweet,” she said.

He followed Esther into the kitchen, showed her where the vases were in the china cabinet in the dining room, and set the table while she finished dinner.

“What do you think of the house?” he asked when they sat down.

“Your house?” she asked around a mouthful of picadillo and rice.

He hesitated, his insecurity nagging him. His goddamn low self-esteem always waiting in the wings to make him feel less than worthy of the things he wanted. But he stuffed it down. “Our house,” he said. “I mean, if you want it.”

“I want it,” she replied immediately.

He felt his heart lurch, almost as if he’d been sent careening into space. “Okay. Well, what do you think of it?”

“I like it,” she said, but there was a hesitancy there.

“What?” Hank prodded.

“It’s just…” Esther chewed her lip, something she did when she was trying to decide what to say. “It just feels like somebody else’s house sometimes.”

“Yeah. It doesn’t feel like you.”

“It doesn’t feel like you either,” she said, her eyes boring into his. “I know you’ve lived here for a long time, but it doesn’t feel like it. There’s nothing here that makes me feel like you’ve made it your own.”

“Because I haven’t,” he said, realizing it was true. It felt like the house was from another lifetime, when he was a different person.

“Okay. So let’s make it ours,” he said, bracing himself for her refusal. He believed her when she said she would stay, but there was that whispering voice that told him that it was too good to be true. He tried to shrug it off but the more pensive Esther looked, the more she furrowed her brow and looked around, the louder that whisper sounded. He felt himself getting tense waiting for her answer, half expecting her to say, “Just kidding, I don’t want this anymore.”

“Well,” she said, “my grandma had a blue door back in Georgia. A really pretty kind of teal blue. She said it welcomed good energy and repelled bad energy.”

“Do you want to paint the door blue?” Hank said, thoroughly surprised by her answer.

“Could we?”

* * *

Esther stood backand admired the evergreen wreath she’d just hung on the front door. She’d made it herself after seeing a highlight on social media which had led her to a YouTube video. She’d gotten all of the materials from the backyard.