Page 55 of Something Like Shelter

I had to remind myself that this was how friendships happened. Neighbors helped each other. Clients became friends. People with dogs borrowed things and watched each other’s pets and occasionally shared dinner.

There didn’t have to be anything else underneath it.

Except there was.

I was already picturing it.

Not some grand romantic fantasy. Nothing dramatic. Just small things. Adelaide growing old enough to recognize me. Her and Tuna running around the yard. Willa telling me some story about what they did that day as we shared coffee.

Little things. Yet, somehow, everything.

“I need to go check on the potatoes. Stay up here a while if you want.”

“No, I’m coming down to top off my coffee and watch you cook.”

“It’ll be nice to have the company.”

We both got up and she followed me back down to the kitchen that smelled like garlic and rosemary from the potatoes.

“Oh, that smells amazing,” Willa groaned. “There has to be something I can do. Set the table?”

I was raised never to let a guest lift a finger when I was hosting. That said, if she kept making little moaning sounds, I was going to lose my damn mind.

“Sure. The dishes are up there,” I said, waving toward the cabinet as I transferred the asparagus to a cast iron pan to bring out to the grill.

I made my way out there, fiddling with the grill and pretending not to look in the back door and watch Willa moving around my kitchen and dining room. She looked way too much like she belonged there.

I could see a thousand nights just like this—me prepping dinner while she set the table, a baby upstairs, maybe kids playing in the backyard.

Maybe that was what was getting to me more than anything.

It wasn’t just that Willa looked beautiful in my kitchen.

It was that she looked comfortable. She wasn’t hovering awkwardly, waiting for me to tell her what to do. She wasn’t acting like a guest who was afraid to touch anything. She’d found the plates, set the table, checked on the baby, poured herself coffee, and somehow managed to make my house feel different simply by being in it.

Warmer.

More lived in.

I caught myself watching her through the window again.

She was standing at the table, smoothing the edge of the placemats before setting a fork down. Completely ordinary. And somehow it hit me harder than the dress had.

I liked ordinary.

I wanted this woman doing ordinary things in my house.

I wanted to know what she looked like on a Tuesday morning when neither of us had gotten enough sleep. I wanted to hear her complain about the air being too cold and stealing food from my plate. I wanted to know what kind of Christmas traditions she would bring into my house and what she would say about my ridiculous collection of wrapping supplies.

I wanted to know what Adelaide would be like when she was three. Five. Ten. Eighteen.

And, God help me, I wanted to know what our kids would look like.

That thought stopped me cold.

Our kids.

Not mine.