Nicole didn’t bring it up right away. She’d sat with it for a few days—let it tumble around her brain like clothes in a dryer. Sometimes it felt like a warning. Other times, just a sad kind of mystery. Her conversations with Julia hadn’t clarified much, except for the shared sense that something didn’t add up. But it wasn’t just about Edgar anymore. It was about whether the story he told matched the life he lived. ...
Nicole hadn’t seen Julia since Thanksgiving, but now that winter break had rolled around, her younger sister had chosen the city over the suburbs. “More fun,” she’d said, tossing her duffel onto the couch like she lived there. “Also, Mom’s already doing the Ethan Wilson sales pitch.” Nicole snorted. “Ah yes, Deloitte’s finest.” “Exactly,” Julia said, dropping onto the cushions. “Hard pass.” Now the two of them were sprawled in joggers and oversized comfy socks, wine in hand, half a pizza cooling on the coffee table. Julia’s glass was mostly for show. ...
Nicole had been looking forward to this day for weeks. Which was strange, really—who looked forward to meeting someone’s parents? But with Edgar, it was different. The way he spoke about them—his mom’s sweet lunch notes, his dad’s quiet wisdom, the Sunday baseball games—it all sounded so warm, so easy. She couldn’t help but fill in the rest. Honestly, it felt… ideal. They were halfway to his place now, winding through two-lane roads that cut between low hills and dense trees. Nicole sat curled slightly toward the window, watching the scenery shift. ...
Nicole held the phone to her ear with one hand, a half-zipped overnight bag in the other, as she kicked the front door closed behind her. “I made it,” she said, adjusting her grip on the handle. “No snow, no traffic, and only one minor crisis involving my sister’s passive-aggressive texts.” On the other end of the line, Edgar’s voice softened. “Glad you got there safe.” She smiled, setting the bag down by the staircase. “I like how you actually care whether I arrive alive. That’s rare.” ...
Nicole slipped in a final gold hoop, checked the mirror, and called out, “Two minutes! Promise.” From the living room, Edgar’s voice came back, patient as ever. “Take your time. I like seeing where you live.” She grabbed her jacket off the back of a chair, shaking it once to dislodge the cat hair she’d missed. A quick check: phone, wallet, keys. All set. He stood when she entered the room. Always did. ...
Nicole hadn’t expected to say yes. Not because Edgar wasn’t sweet—he was. He was thoughtful and quiet in a way that made people underestimate him, and charming in the subtle, offbeat way that crept up on you instead of knocking down the door. But after all that time? Weeks of polite desk chats, the occasional lunch, she’d assumed if he were going to make a move, he would’ve done it by now. ...
Edgar turned his key and stepped inside. The apartment was just as he’d left it — impeccably clean, almost staged. The air was thick with the scent of vanilla spray, underscored by lavender plug-ins, lemon wipes, and some kind of aerosol linen mist that clung to the walls. Faintly, beneath it all, was something else. Something old. The hallway light cast a soft glow over the entryway as he loosened his tie and slipped off his shoes. He glanced at the spotless coffee table — not a can, not a crumb. ...
Edgar entered the house he grew up in for the first time since he went away to university. The house was dim and stale with the smell of stale cigarette smoke, reheated meat and sour beer. The coffee table was cluttered with cans and pizza boxes, and where it wasn’t covered with crumbs, it was covered in a dust-like substance that looked like it would take more than a cloth to get it clean. ...
By late afternoon, Edgar’s head was spinning from onboarding. Logins, calendars, HR portals—a scavenger hunt of acronyms and passwords. He had a half-written checklist open and three browser tabs he wasn’t sure he’d opened himself. He was mid-scroll through a benefits FAQ when a head popped up over the cubicle wall. “Hey!” The voice belonged to a man in a button-down shirt rolled at the sleeves, lanyard dangling like a lazy necktie. “You’re Edgar, right?” ...
The ashtray was full again. Edgar stood near the sink, trying not to look at it. The kitchen window was cracked open just enough to let in a half-hearted breeze, but it did nothing to clear the stale smell of smoke or the heaviness in the air. On the counter sat a handwritten shopping list in blue ink. It only had four items — barely legible: Eggs, Cigs, Coffee. The last one, Beer, was scrawled in red ink — clearly his father’s addition. ...