Page 39 of A Taste of Vanilla

Oliver sets the water near the tiny kitchenette while Marley sneezes. “This is livable,” he says simply.

Marley walks to the window and peers out. “Is that the squirrel?”

“What squirrel?” Oliver asks.

I move beside her. Outside on the fire escape railing sits a gray squirrel beneath the rusty bars. It nibbles on something unidentifiable with the grim determination of a tiny Victorian chimney sweep. One eye is clouded, and he’s missing one leg right below the joint. His tail is patchy. The guy looks like he fought God and demanded a rematch.

“That’s Sir Nubsworth.”

“You named him?”

“He lives here.” He’s lived here for a long time.

For some reason, the tiny, battered squirrel makes me feel a little less ridiculous. He’s alive. Maybe lopsided, and maybe a little suspicious and full of diseases, but he’s alive.

Maybe survival doesn’t have to look graceful. It can be eating mystery crumbs on a rusty railing while three emotionally unstable adults stare at you through a window.

Marley turns away first, clapping her hands. “Sheets.”

“Blue bin,” I say as if that helps at all. There are at least three out of the twelve bins up here.

For the next twenty minutes, Oliver and Marley turn the place from a disaster to something that only slightly resembles shelter. Marley finds the sheets in the second blue bin while Oliver makes the bed with military precision, tucking corners so tightly I’m afraid to disturb them. Marley locates a clean t-shirt and leggings from my car wardrobe and Oliver tests an outlet, finally declaring it “not actively smoking,” before plugging in my phone.

I stand in the middle, mostly useless, the blue bee pillow hugged tightly to my chest.

At some point, Marley takes it from me and places it on the bed. “There,” she says. “Home.”

It hits me a little too hard.

I sit down on the mattress, and Marley sits next to me. Oliver stands near the small kitchen, his arms crossed.

“Thank you,” I whisper.

“Always,” Marley replies as she leans her head against my shoulder.

Oliver looks at the floor. “Don’t drive to Florida without gas again.”

I smile weakly. “Is that your version of always?”

“Yes.”

I wince. “It needs some work.”

“It gets the point across.”

Marley lifts her head. “Do you want me to stay with you tonight?”

I do. But I also want to be alone.

I had been rescued today. I had needed to be. But I don’t want to feel afraid of being alone.

“Can I try being alone?” I ask her.

Her face softens. “Of course.”

Oliver glances at me, and I can tell he understands.

I just want to try.