Page 166 of Offside Rules

I read it twice, then lean against the counter.

He’s home. He’s awake. He’s talking to me.

I’ve spent two days wanting those things, and now that I have them, I want to call him and ask why he thinks I give a shit about the pictures when I haven’t heard his voice since they put him in an ambulance.

Instead, I finish brushing my teeth so I don’t cry with toothpaste in my mouth.

Me: I’m glad you’re home. Let me know what the surgeon says. I’ve been worried.

I wait, watching the screen.

Nothing else comes through.

Boston is three hours ahead. He could already be leaving for the appointment. His dad could be helping him get dressed. There are plenty of reasonable explanations, and I’m getting tired of supplying all of them myself.

I set the phone down and finish getting ready.

The property manager is meeting me at ten. I have the signed documents he emailed, confirmation of the transfer, and a pen that works. I checked it twice.

I’m getting the shop.

Even if I have to do it on four hours of sleep in yesterday’s mascara.

Actually, I should probably fix the mascara.

The property manager spreads the final pages across the counter near the front window while I take my folder out of my bag.

"I’ve marked the places that need your initials. Then signatures on the last two pages."

"Okay."

I’ve already read everything with Ellie, who had considerably more questions than I did. Mostly because I got distracted every time I reached the words leased premises and remembered they meant this place.

My place.

I initial where he points, check the dates, and sign my name.

He confirms the payment on his tablet, then slides two keys across the counter.

"Congratulations."

I pick them up.

They’re ordinary keys. One has a little red cover, and the other has a scratch near the top. I don’t know what I expected. Something heavier, maybe, considering how long I’ve been saving for them.

"Thank you."

He goes over the alarm again and reminds me which number to call about the building. I write it down, even though it’s already in the paperwork, because today doesn’t feel like a day to trust my memory.

The front windows need cleaning. There’s a scuff on the wall where I want the menu, and the space for the display case looks smaller now that I’ve actually paid for the right to put one there.

"Any questions?"

About a hundred. None of them are his problem.

"I think I’m good."

"Then I’ll let you enjoy it."