Page 70 of Daddy's Ring
We take separate cars to Chestnut Hill. Me following Stellan, Vincent and Jamie behind me in the truck with my belongings. The drive feels longer than it should, every mile weighted with anticipation and dread in equal measure.
The old house sits exactly as I left it.
Stone walls, iron gates, security system still armed from the last time I was here. The guards at the entrance do a double-take when they see me, but they wave us through without comment.
I park in the circular drive and just sit for a moment, staring at the front door.
"You going to get out or just look at it?" Stellan taps on my window.
I force myself to move, to walk up the steps I've climbed a thousand times. The key sticks slightly in the lock—from disuse,probably. The alarm beeps and I enter the code, muscle memory taking over.
Then I step inside and stop breathing.
It smells the same.
Not like Zola—it’s been too long for her vanilla scent to linger. But it smells like the life we had here. Like the furniture polish the cleaning service used, like the specific way air moves through these rooms, like coming home after too long away.
"Jesus." Stellan steps in behind me. "This is..."
"Yeah."
The furniture is exactly where I left it. Couch in the living room with the throw blanket she liked draped over one arm. Coffee table with a few of her textbooks still stacked on the corner—I couldn't bring myself to move them. Kitchen visible through the archway with the island where she'd sit on the bar stools while I cooked.
Jamie and Vincent are carefully neutral as they start bringing boxes in. Setting them in the entry hallway, waiting for direction on where things should go.
"Bedroom," I tell them, pointing upstairs. "Just leave everything in there. I'll unpack later."
They nod and disappear with the first load.
I move through the house slowly, cataloging what's changed—nothing—and what's stayed the same—everything. The living room where Zola would curl up with her anatomy textbooks, complaining about having to memorize muscle insertions. The kitchen where I learned to make her favorite foods because making sure she ate felt like the only way I could take care of her.
The bathroom where her shampoo bottle still sits in the shower.
The bedroom where her hair tieisstill on the nightstand.
Stellan finds me standing in the kitchen, running my hand over the marble countertop.
"You okay?"
"I cooked for her here." The words come out rough. "Every night I wasn't working. She'd sit right there—" I gesture to the bar stools "—and pretend she didn't want to be taken care of while I made her eat actual food instead of coffee and determination."
"I remember." Stellan leans against the counter. "You drove me insane talking about what you were going to make her. 'Stellan, do you think she'd like this pasta?' 'Stellan, is this sauce too fancy?' Like I gave a shit about your domestic phase."
"You helped me pick out the ring." I look at him. "You gave a shit."
"Yeah, well." He clears his throat. "You were less insufferable when she was around. Seemed worth encouraging."
The guys finish unloading. Stellan tips them, sends them off with instructions to keep their mouths shut about where I'm living now. Not that it matters—no one knows where I live that doesn't need to—but old habits.
"You need help unpacking?" Stellan asks.
"No." I'm already moving toward the stairs. "I've got it."
"Declan." His voice stops me. "You know being back here doesn't fix anything, right? This house, her things still in it—that's all just set dressing. You still have to actually talk to her."
"I know."
"Do you?" He follows me to the base of the stairs. "Because you've been avoiding that conversation. And now you're back in the house where you built a life with her, surrounded by reminders of what you lost, and I'm worried you're going to convince yourself that's enough."
