“We are morally opposed to mopping,” Kirsten said.
“Teddy,” Eleanor said, “what are you doing?”
Teddy swallowed. “I’m making things comfortable for you guys. You took me in, and I like doing all this stuff, and—”
“No one likes mopping,” Kirsten said with a headshake.
“Sweetie,” Eleanor said, “you don’t have to pay us back by making us food. That’s not how this works. I don’t know what Richard did to make you believe you had to earn his affection, but that’s not the way real relationships work, whether they’re romantic or friendship.”
“This is your place, too,” Kirsten said. “You can just . . . exist here, you know? You don’t have to be a one-woman chore wheel.”
“Okay.” Teddy nodded as an unfamiliar feeling washed over her. It was happiness, she realized. Just plain happiness that she got to be here with her two best friends who loved her exactly the way she was.
“That being said . . . that pot roast smells amazing. Can we eat it now?” Kirsten asked.
After the three of them had demolished the entire pot roast and most of a loaf of French bread along with a bottle of wine, Eleanor said, “We’re not saying you should never cook for us. I mean, we like to cook for movie night.”
“But we don’t want you to feel like you have to,” Kirsten said, taking a sip of her wine. “We already love you, Teddy. You don’t have to convince us.”
“Okay,” she said with a relieved smile. “And I’ll think about the whole Teddy Time thing. Maybe I have some undiscovered passions, after all.”
“All right, then,” Kirsten said, a cautious smile on her face. “Speaking of passions, I’m going to attend to mine right now. I’m working on some oxidation art.”
“What’s oxidation art?” Teddy asked.
“It’s where she pees on canvases!” Eleanor said brightly.
“Don’t worry.” Kirsten stood up. “I do it in my room. Well, I do now. I used to do it in the studio.”
Teddy nodded, trying not to cringe.
Eleanor smiled as she stood up. “Don’t even think about doing the dishes. It’s my turn—so says the chore wheel, and we must defer to its wisdom. Will you be okay for the rest of the night?”
“Yes,” Teddy answered, but then thought about it. She’d spent the past few days staring into space instead of sleeping, wondering what Richard was doing as she lay in bed alone. Maybe she could spend tonight not thinking about him or cleaning Kirsten and Eleanor’s apartment. Maybe this could be one of the very first evenings of her brand-new, terrifying, wide-open life. Day one of figuring out who Theodora Phillips really was.
“I’m going to do whatever I want,” she said.
Eleanor gave her a thumbs-up and a smile, and Kirsten said, “Hell yeah!”
Teddy walked into her bedroom/studio/closet and shut the door, sniffing the air a few times (no pee smell). She hadn’t lied to her friends; she was going to do what she wanted tonight.
But what she wanted right now was to see someone she could count on, someone who could comfort her, someone who understood her.
She pulled her laptop out from under the bed (storage space in the bedroom/closet was lacking), snuggled under the blankets, and started watching the latest episode of Everett’s Place.
6
Everett pulled his jacket tighter against the October wind and climbed the stone steps of his parents’ brick Victorian Village home, which was larger than the home of two professors had any right to be. His parents had purchased it with an inheritance before Everett was born, and so his childhood had been spent in this magical storybook house, one that had a literal turret, even if it was slightly tumbledown.
Once upon a time, the turret had been Everett’s room, the place where he read vintage Hardy Boys books late into the night (with a bedside lamp illuminated, because his parents weren’t the type to get mad at late-night reading and necessitate the covert under-the-blankets flashlight method). Now it was his sister’s room, and Everett had no idea what she did up there. Hatched plans to take over the world probably.
Everett turned the doorknob and stepped inside. Despite the house’s slightly imposing exterior (see: brick, hulking size, turret), the inside was cozy, with lots of small rooms full of wood accents that made everything dark but comforting. Everett slipped his shoes off before he stepped onto the threadbare (his mother would have said well loved) rug that had been there as long as he could remember. The air smelled of onions, garlic, and something he couldn’t place, which meant his father was cooking. When Dad cooked, he tried new recipes—things he’d read about on food blogs or in the New York Times, or had at local restaurants and attempted to re-create at home.
When Everett’s mother cooked, it was largely vegetarian chicken nuggets. This had also been true when Everett was a child, long before health and climate concerns made vegetarian options hip and commonplace. Back then vegetarian chicken nuggets were seen as incredibly gross, at best, to every kid who came over.
His sister appeared silently in front of him, which would’ve startled him if he weren’t used to her by now.
“Hello, Gretel,” Everett said. “How are you?”
Gretel was a full eighteen years younger than him, a late-in-life child for his parents, but he still spoke to her as if she were his sophisticated aunt. That was the type of response Gretel’s presence demanded.
“You’re late,” Gretel said flatly. “The falafel’s getting cold.”
“Falafel?” Everett asked, his voice tinged with hope, but Gretel was already walking toward the dining room.
Everett hung his coat in the hall closet and followed her to the table, where both of his parents already sat.
“Everett!” they said in unison, joy in their voices.
There was a reason Everett had dinner at his family’s home so often. He knew that most people his age only hung out with their families out of obligation, but his reason was simple. He liked them.
“Hey, guys,” he said, sitting down on an antique wooden chair that creaked with displeasure. Everett had always been tall, with a body type best described as “sturdy,” so since he’d been in high school, it had seemed like only a matter of time before he broke one of these delicate chairs.
His dad, who was built like him but with flyaway gray hair and a matching beard, smiled back. “It’s falafel night.”
His mother, who was a full two feet shorter than both of them, clapped her hands. “Falafel night, indeed!”