Chapter 11: Furniture Moving

Saturday morning light slanted through the kitchen blinds in narrow blades, catching the steam rising from Sarah’s coffee mug. She stood at the counter in her robe, hair still twisted up from the night before, scrolling through her phone with one hand while she stirred cream into her cup. “Kayla’s new place sounds like a disaster zone,” she said without looking up, voice carrying that familiar mix of sisterly concern and mild annoyance. “All those boxes and no one to help with the heavy stuff. You’re a saint for going over there today.”

I leaned against the fridge, keys already in my pocket, and nodded like the helpful brother-in-law I was supposed to be. “No big deal. I’ll knock it out in a few hours and be back before dinner.” The lie sat easy on my tongue now, smooth from weeks of practice. Sarah kissed my cheek on her way out the door for her own Saturday work event, lips brushing quick and absent, the way they always did these days. Her car pulled away down the street, and the house fell quiet except for the low hum of the fridge.

My pulse didn’t spike the way it used to. It had settled into something steadier, heavier—a low thrum that lived under my skin every time Kayla’s name came up. Two weeks since the motel, four since the beach house, and the ache had only sharpened. Texts at odd hours, quick photos deleted seconds after they landed, the constant low-grade fever of wanting her while Sarah moved through our normal life like nothing had changed. I grabbed my wallet and headed out, the drive across town feeling shorter every time.

Kayla’s new apartment complex sat in a quiet neighborhood of low brick buildings and freshly planted trees. The second-floor unit faced a small courtyard, sunlight pouring through the big windows and turning the bare walls a warm gold. She answered the door in cutoff denim shorts and a thin white tank, hair pulled back in a loose knot, a smudge of dust already on her cheek. The place smelled like fresh paint and cardboard, boxes stacked against the walls, a new couch still wrapped in plastic in the middle of the living room.

“God, thank you,” she said, pulling me inside by the front of my shirt. The door clicked shut behind us. For a second we just stood there, inches apart, the apartment quiet except for the faint traffic noise outside. Her eyes held mine, dark and certain, the same look she’d given me in the hallway after the drive home. “I really do need help with the heavy stuff. But I also just needed you here.”

We started with the actual work. I carried the dresser into the bedroom while she directed, her hands brushing mine every time we set something down. The couch came next, sliding it across the floor on its plastic wrap until it sat centered under the window. Sweat already dotted her collarbone, the tank clinging in places that made my mouth go dry. Every lift, every shift of furniture brought us close—her hip grazing my thigh, her fingers lingering on my arm when she steadied a box. The touches weren’t accidental anymore. They were deliberate, building slow under the bright afternoon light.