Page 24 of The Man in the Cottage

But I don't. Because if I go over there tonight, I don't know what I'll say or do, and I'm not ready to find out.

Chapter Eight

Travis

I hear the cars pull up around four.

I'm in the cottage, trying to stay out of the way like I said I would. I told Kelly I'd help set up this morning, and I did—moved furniture, hung some string lights she bought, assembled a coat rack she'd ordered online and never gotten around to putting together. She stood in the kitchen doorway watching me work, handing me tools when I needed them, and I tried not to think about how domestic it felt. How easy.

"You're good at this," she said at one point.

"It's just screws and brackets."

"I meant the whole... fixing things. Building things. You make it look simple."

I didn't know what to say to that, so I just kept working. But I felt her eyes on me the whole time, and I liked it more than I should have.

Now I'm back in the cottage, listening to car doors slam and voices carry across the yard. Women's voices, high and excited, the noise that happens when people who love each other haven't seen each other in a while. I hear Kelly's laugh, bright and loud, and something in my chest twists.

She sounds happy. She sounds like herself, the version of herself that existed before her grandmother died and some broken stranger showed up in her backyard. I should let her have this. I should stay in here all night, let her be with her friends, stop inserting myself into a life I have no business being part of.

But I left my drill on her back porch.

I noticed it about an hour ago, after I'd already retreated to the cottage. It's sitting right there by the door, in plain sight, and Kelly's going to trip over it or one of her friends is going to ask about it and she'll have to explain why there are power tools on her porch.

I should just leave it. It's not that important. I have other drills.

But it was my grandfather's drill. One of the only things I kept when we cleaned out his house, back when I was nineteen and didn't understand yet that objects could hold ghosts.

I pull on my boots and grab my jacket. I'll be fast. In and out. Grab the drill, wave if anyone sees me, disappear back to the cottage. Simple.

The back door of the main house is around the side, not visible from the front where the cars are parked. I can hear voices inside now, muffled through the walls—laughter, the clink of glasses, music playing softly. Kelly put together a playlist yesterday, showed it to me on her phone. "Galentine's vibes," she called it. Motown and nineties R&B and some songs I didn't recognize but she swore were essential.

The drill is right where I left it, sitting on the porch next to the coat rack I assembled this morning. I grab it and turn to leave.

The back door opens.

"Oh!" A woman stands in the doorway, wine glass in hand, eyes wide. She's Black, around Kelly's age, with long braids and a surprised expression. "Sorry, I didn't know anyone was out here."

"Just grabbing my drill," I say, holding it up like evidence. "I'll get out of your way."

"You're the cottage guy." She says it like a statement, not a question, tilting her head as she looks at me. "Kelly mentioned you."

"Yeah, I'm—"

"Travis, right?" She steps out onto the porch, pulling the door mostly closed behind her. "I'm Brit. I needed some air. It's already chaos in there and we've only been here an hour."

"Nice to meet you."

She's studying me in a way that makes me want to take a step back. Not suspicious, exactly, but curious. Like she's trying to figure something out.

"You look really familiar," she says slowly.

My stomach drops.

"I get that a lot."

"No, like..." She frowns, squinting at me in the dim porch light. "I swear I've seen you somewhere before. Do you have a brother? A twin or something?"