Page 113 of My Best Friend Is Broken
“Four bedrooms seems like a lot for two people.”
“One for us, one for guests. Molly will definitely want to stay over sometimes. And then...” He trails off, looking slightly embarrassed.
“And then?” I prompt.
“One that could be your medical practice, eventually. If you wanted. Having a room set up for consultations would be perfect.”
The thoughtfulness of it makes my throat tight. He’s not just thinking about where we’ll sleep or eat, but about my career, my future, the person I’m becoming.
“That’s... that’s perfect, actually.”
“And the fourth could be whatever. Office, library, gym, guest room number two for when Carlo gets too drunk to drive home.” He grins. “Or maybe eventually...”
He doesn’t finish the sentence, but I know what he’s thinking. Maybe eventually, a nursery. Maybe eventually, we’ll have a family that fills all these bedrooms with noise and life and chaos.
It’s too soon to talk about that seriously, too many steps ahead of where we are now. But the fact that he’s thinking about it, planning for a future that includes not just survival but actual living, makes something warm bloom in my chest.
The house is everything the listing promised and more. Victorian semi-detached, red brick with white window frames, a small front garden that’s mostly paved but could be made beautiful with some effort. The kind of place that looks like a proper family home, solid and permanent and real.
The estate agent, a woman in her forties with a practiced smile and expensive suit, meets us at the door with a folder full of information and an enthusiasm that’s probably only partly genuine.
“Mr. Ricci, Mr. Walker, welcome! I think you’re going to love this property. It has so much character while still having all the modern amenities.”
She leads us through, pointing out features that matter to estate agents but probably wouldn’t occur to normal people. Original crown molding, newly installed central heating, hardwood floors throughout. I nod and make appropriate noises, but mostly I’m just trying to imagine us living here.
The living room is spacious, with large windows that let in plenty of natural light. I can picture our sofa here, the TV on that wall, maybe some plants in the corner because Nicky mentioned wanting to try keeping something alive that isn’t us or other criminals.
The kitchen is modern and sleek, with far more counter space than we’d ever need. I imagine making breakfast here, coffee for Nicky and tea for me, maybe learning to cook something more complicated than sandwiches now that we’d have room to actually spread out.
“The bedrooms are upstairs,” the estate agent says, leading us up a staircase that doesn’t creak. “The masteris quite generous, with an en-suite that was just renovated last year.”
The master bedroom is indeed generous. Easily twice the size of our current one, with huge windows overlooking the back garden and an en-suite bathroom that has both a tub and a separate shower. I can immediately picture us here, our bed against that wall, lazy Sunday mornings, the kind of domestic happiness that once felt impossible.
“And through here,” she continues, “are the three other bedrooms. All good sizes, plenty of natural light.”
We follow her through them one by one. The first would be perfect for guests, with enough space for a proper bed and storage. The second is slightly smaller but has built-in bookshelves that make me think of all the medical textbooks I’d love to accumulate.
But it’s the third bedroom, at the front of the house, that makes me stop and really look.
It’s larger than the others and has beautiful light from two windows. There’s enough space for a desk, an examination table, and medical supplies. I can picture it perfectly. Professional but welcoming, a place where I could see patients who need discretion, who can’t or won’t go to regular doctors.
“This one,” I say quietly. “This could be the practice.”
Nicky comes to stand beside me, his hand finding mine. “It’s perfect. Close to the front door for patients, it could easily be separated from the living spaces for privacy, good natural light for examinations.”
The estate agent’s eyes light up with the realization that we’re seriously considering this. “Oh, are you in medical practice, Mr. Walker?”
“I’m training to be,” I say, and the confidence in my voice surprises me. Not “hoping to be” or “thinking about it,” but a statement of fact. This is happening. I’m building a career, a life, a future.
“How wonderful! This room would be perfect for that. The previous owners used it as a home office, so it can easily be set up for professional use if needed.”
We finish the tour with the garden. It’s a decent-sized space that’s mostly lawn but has potential for planting, maybe even a small patio area. It’s private, enclosed by tall fences, the kind of place where you could sit outside without worrying about neighbors or passersby.
“What do you think?” the estate agent asks as we stand in the garden, surveying the property from outside. “Would you like to put in an offer?”
I look at Nicky, trying to read his expression. This is a huge decision, a commitment not just to a property but to building a life together in a permanent way. We’ve been dancing around it, talking about “someday” and “eventually,” but this would make it real.
“Can you give us a moment?” Nicky asks her.
