Page 32 of Breakaway Hearts

I open my paints and spread out the colors on my palette before getting to work.

* * *

It takes almost forty-eight hours for me to get the call alerting me that I can go get the rest of my stuff, and Reese insists on re-hiring the moving company he hired the first time to help me get everything. I don’t actually need the entire contents of my apartment, so I leave some stuff—like the furniture—only bringing what I’ll have use for in the next few weeks.

As instructed by my landlord, I move everything away from the walls so that the cleanup crews will be able to access the space as they repair the damage from the fire.

I leave several of the boxes lined up along one wall of the bedroom and unpack the rest, painfully aware that the guest room is already looking much messier than the rest of the house. I do my best to keep things organized, but chaos always has a way of sneaking into my life despite my best intentions.

I’m at school three days after the fire, sitting at my desk while the students work on a spelling test, when it occurs to me that maybe I should’ve tried the ‘hide everything in the closet’ tactic even at Reese’s house. He doesn’t have to go to the arena until later tonight for his next game, and I know he usually likes to clean the house when he has spare time.

Even though I know he probably won’t touch my room, it still leaves me with creeping anxiety that the mess in there will drive him crazy.

The time limit passes for the test, and I tell the kids to pass their papers forward. We talk a little bit more about a small book I had them read on Denver’s history as a homework assignment, and before I know it, the bell rings for recess.

Most of the kids bound outside after bundling up for the uncharacteristically chilly day. I have a few students who prefer to stay inside, either to read or nap, so I sit inside with them and work on grading the quizzes.

My phone buzzes when I’m about a quarter of the way through the thirty papers with almost indecipherable handwriting on them, and I pull it out of my bag.

When I see the message from Reese, I wince.

REESE: Hey! Do you mind if I move some of your stuff?

Shit. I rack my brain, wondering if I left anything in his way in the common areas. Maybe some of my snacks on the coffee table? Or the discarded cardigan I left on the chair in the kitchen? I chew on my lip, resisting the urge to groan.

ME: Oh, I’m sorry! Yes, feel free. Sorry again.

REESE: Nothing to be sorry about. See you when you get home :)

I tuck my phone back in my purse and swallow the burning guilt in my throat. I really didn’t want to be an inconvenience to Reese when I moved in with him, but here I am, only a few days in and already getting in his way.

Maybe I’m overthinking things the way I always do. Never in our almost decade-long friendship has Reese gotten truly upset with me, especially over something like this. The reminder of that fact doesn’t stop the worry, but it at least mitigates it a bit.

After running off their excess energy, the kids come back in from recess, and we continue the day’s lesson, moving to our multiplication tables and ending with our recitation of the Bill of Rights—in song form, of course. Thank you,Schoolhouse Rock.

By the end of the day, I’ve mostly forgotten my worries about Reese being bothered by the stuff I’ve left around the house. I read a book on the bus ride home as usual, enjoying the extra ten minutes of reading time now that I’m on a different route, then walk down the wide sidewalk toward his house.

When I step inside, I automatically glance around to see what’s changed.

Surprisingly, my cardigan is still draped on the kitchen chair, and my Twizzlers are still on the coffee table. I raise an eyebrow, curious what Reese was talking about if not those things. He’s not in the kitchen or living room, so I head up the stairs, eager to get out of my work clothes and into some sweatpants.

Except, when I go into my room, all of my stuff is gone.

No suitcase. No paints.

No clothes on the floor.

I open the closet to check if he stuffed everything in there, but the only thing I see are some of Reese’s suits and a few pieces of hockey paraphernalia.

“Umm,” I whisper intelligently. “What the hell?”

“Hey, welcome home.” Reese comes up behind me and peers into the closet over my shoulder. “What do you think?”

“Did you throw out all of my things?” I ask, turning around to face him. We’re suddenly very close, and I back up, almost bumping into the closet. “Is this your way of kicking me out?”

He laughs, shaking out his wet hair. He must’ve just gotten out of the shower.

“Come on, Firefly, you know me better than that. This is why I asked if I could move your things. I switched rooms with you.”

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