Page 23 of The Man in the Cottage

"I know I don't have to." He looks back at me. "I'm offering."

Something warm spreads through my chest. "Yeah. Okay. That would be great, actually. I'm useless with a hammer."

"I've noticed."

"Hey."

The corner of his mouth twitches. Almost a smile. I'm collecting them now, these almost-smiles, keeping a tally in my head.

"I'll come by the morning of," he says. "Help you get everything ready."

"Thank you."

He nods and sets down his empty mug. "I should go. Let you get back to your list."

"Travis." He stops at the door, hand on the frame. "I mean it. You don't have to hide while they're here. You're allowed to exist."

He's quiet for a second. Then he says, "I'll think about it."

The door closes behind him, and I watch him walk across the yard to the cottage. There's something about the way he moves, the set of his shoulders, that looks heavier than usual. Like he's carrying something I can't see.

I want to know what it is. I want to ask. But I told him I wouldn't push, and I meant it.

So I go back to my list instead, and I try not to think about the way he said I'll think about it, like existing was something he had to decide whether he deserved.

The next few days pass in a blur of cleaning and planning and trying not to overdo it. I scrub bathrooms that haven't been touched in months, wash sheets that smell like lavender and old closets, stock the fridge with more food than four people could possibly eat.

Travis comes by twice. Once to check on a funny sound the heater was making, which turned out to be nothing. Once to bring me firewood, a whole stack of it, because he noticed I was running low.

"You didn't have to do that," I said, watching him carry armfuls of split logs to the pile by the fireplace.

"I know."

"Is that going to be your answer to everything? 'I know'?"

He set down the last load and straightened up, brushing bark dust off his hands. "Probably."

I laughed, and he looked at me with that expression he gets sometimes—like he's filing something away, saving it for later.

"Your friends get here tomorrow?" he asked.

"Tomorrow afternoon. Nicole's driving down with Mona, and Brit's coming from DC."

He nodded. "Let me know if you need anything moved or set up."

"I will."

He left, and I stood there in my living room surrounded by firewood and clean sheets and the strange feeling that I was preparing for something bigger than a party.

Nicole texts me that night: We're leaving at 9. Should be there by 3 or 4 depending on traffic.

Can't wait, I type back. Drive safe.

Always do. Get some sleep. Tomorrow's going to be fun.

I put down my phone and look around the house. Everything is ready. The guest rooms are clean, the food is prepped, the wine is chilling. There's nothing left to do but wait.

Through the window, I can see the cottage. The lights are on. Travis is in there, probably reading or watching TV or doing whatever he does in the evenings. I think about walking over, knocking on his door, asking if he wants company.