If We Lived Here

by Lindsey Palmer

Genres: Family Life; Women's Fiction

Synopsis

Razor-sharp and thought-provoking, Lindsey J. Palmer's incisive new novel both celebrates and skewers modern relationships and their milestones, offering a witty and wise look at what it takes to commit--to love, to a home, and to the life that's right for you. After three years of dating and trading nights at their respective New York City apartments, Emma Feit and Nick O'Hare are moving in together. Or they will be, as soon as they find the right place. For two happily-in-love professionals--Nick's a teacher, Emma tutors college-bound teens--with good credit and stellar references, how hard can it be? As it turns out, very--in ways that are completely unexpected. Suddenly Emma is filled with questions about cohabiting, about giving up her freedom--not to mention about who's going to clean the toilet. And while her best friend plans a dream wedding to her wealthy fiancé, and her older brother settles into suburban bliss, Emma must figure out what home means to her--and how on earth to get there. “If We Lived Here is a brisk and insightful look at the complications of cohabitation.” — Harper’s Bazaar “This lighthearted read... shined a heartwarming, insightful light on love.” — FIRST for Women “If We Lived Here cleverly explores the highs and lows (mostly lows) of apartment hunting in New York City. It is also a journey into the complexity of romantic relationships, the changing dynamics of friendship in your 30s, and ultimately the quest for a home.” —The Huffington Post

Release date: March 31, 2015

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 305

Sample

The apartment’s location was ideal, and the rent was within their range, but it was discovering the pair of walk-in closets that prompted Emma to start fantasizing about the article that would appear in the New York Times Habitats section, that trove of adorably obnoxious stories about New Yorkers landing their perfect homes:


Emma stepped her entire body inside one of the closets, whispered, “Space!” and heard an actual echo. She performed a jumping jack, confirming that her arms at full wingspan wouldn’t brush up against the walls; the walk-in was only slightly smaller than the size of Emma’s whole bedroom in Manhattan. She ran her palm along the built-in shelves, which must have been teak, or cedar, or some other solid, expensive wood that real carpenters used to build real furniture. Emma breathed in—the scent made her think of camping trips and farm-to-table restaurants, nothing like her current closet’s flimsy plywood that smelled vaguely of chemicals.

Emma exited the closet and moseyed over to its twin. The spaces were mirror images, this one’s wall of shelves back to back with the others. Emma pictured herself getting ready for work, reaching for a scarf or a purse or one of many books she’d be reading all at once, while Nick would be opposite her, grabbing a belt or a sweater or one of his many Yankees hats. They’d be in their own little inlets, yet just a foot apart, both separate and together.

“Em, is that you?”

Emma peeked her head out to see her boyfriend, Nick, abutted by the landlady, a stout, middle-aged woman who had introduced herself as Mrs. Caroline. “Who are you talking to in there?”

“Oh, no one.” Had she been narrating aloud? “This place is incredible, right?” Emma pulled Nick into the closet, realizing there was definitely enough room for physical fun. “Look, shelves!” She could easily prop a leg up onto one.

“Fancy. Did you see the dishwasher?”

“Ooh, we can have dinner parties!”

“Or, you know, just clean forks,” Nick said. Neither of them was too diligent about dish washing.

“Plus there’s the extra room. It’s perfect for an office, or storage—”

“Or a man cave.” Emma knew he’d said it just to get a rise out of her; at the top of her list of most despised concepts was that of the “man cave.”

“Or maybe a nursery.” She raised her eyebrows. If the landlady weren’t standing right there, Nick probably would’ve been yanking at her ponytail.

“Or a ball pit,” he said.

“Like at Chuck E. Cheese’s?”

“Exactly.”

“What about a yoga nook?”

“Or we could rent it out to a small family of immigrants.”

“Or to a heavy metal band, for their practice space.”

“Ahem.”

They might have kept going, but Mrs. Caroline was now beside them—three people in one closet! “You know I don’t permit sublets, correct?”

“Oh, of course,” Emma said in her best responsible-adult tone, instinctively straightening her shirt, which weirdly she was thinking of as a blouse. “We’re just enjoying some lighthearted banter.” Nick smirked; Emma’s eagerness to please sounded ridiculous even to herself.

“Very sweet,” said Mrs. Caroline flatly. “Should I draw up an application?”

“I just want to check out the shower,” said Emma.

Inside the bathroom—spacious, tasteful, with lots of medicine cabinet storage and no sign of tile mold—Emma cranked at the shower knob. The water pounded against her palm. “Nick, feel this. It’s massage quality.” When her boyfriend put his hand under the stream, Emma took the opportunity to splash his face. He tried to retaliate, but she ducked away, all smiles at the landlady.

“You could bathe an elephant in there,” Nick said.

“But you kids wouldn’t try a stunt like that?” Mrs. Caroline asked, her tone inscrutable.

“You mean, would we locate an elephant in need of a bath, transport him or her up the stairs to this apartment, and—”

“Of course not,” Emma said, cutting Nick off. “We’re very responsible.”

“So, the application?”

Emma and Nick nodded like idiots, and followed Mrs. Caroline, who was shuffling in platform flip-flops, into the kitchen—state-of-the-art appliances, plenty of counter space, an eat-in bar, and a separate nook for table and chairs. A wide window looked out onto Prospect Park and Grand Army Plaza, where Emma could make out the stately arch; bronze statues of soldiers and their handsome horses were frozen in poses of triumph. It seemed like a sign, the arch an entrance and a beckoning to Emma and Nick: This will be your home. Nick’s tug on her shirtsleeve pulled her out of her daydream. Mrs. Caroline was waiting, clipboard in hand.

“So, what’s the relationship between you two?”

Emma had a strange urge to lie, but Nick spoke first: “Boyfriend-girlfriend.” The description made Emma wince; although accurate, it sounded like it was out of a nursery rhyme, singsongy and juvenile.

“We’re very committed,” she added, reaching for Nick’s hand, as clammy as her own. “We’ve been dating for three years.”

“But you’ve never lived together?”

“That’s correct,” said Emma. Since she was more adept at this put-your-best-selves-forward routine, she and Nick had agreed she would do most of the talking with prospective landlords. But the act was making her squirm. Who was this interrogator across the table? Might she next ask Emma to divulge her most shameful memory, or Nick to state his preference for boxers or briefs?

“I see.” It sounded judgmental. Emma couldn’t tell if it was because they were planning to cohabitate before marrying or because they’d waited so long to shack up in the first place. “Do you have all the necessary documents?”

Nick pulled the packet from his bag, their lives summed up in a neat little stack—bank statements and pay stubs, credit reports, personal and professional references, Nick’s letter of employment from P.S. 899’s principal, Emma’s letter of employment from the CEO of 1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies! When Nick relinquished the paper trail into Mrs. Caroline’s stubby fingers, Emma had to suppress an instinct to grab it back. This woman could steal our identities, she thought, plastering a grin to her face.

Mrs. Caroline perched a pair of spectacles on the tip of her nose, then began thumbing through the pages. “My last tenants made more money.” The remark hung in the air, stagnant. She peered up at Nick, the glasses in danger of slipping off her face. “So what kind of earning potential do teachers have?”

“I get an annual raise.” Emma placed a hand on Nick’s thigh and hoped the landlord couldn’t detect his defensiveness. He was sensitive about his salary.

“Nick is tenured,” Emma said, “so unlike the rest of us, he has real job security.”

Mrs. Caroline glanced back at the papers, then fixed her gaze on Emma. “I see you’ve been at your position for less than a year.”

Emma felt her cheeks grow hot. She willed herself to keep her eyes on the prize: two walk-in closets, a dishwasher, ample counter space, a killer view.

“Emma is always changing things up and seeking out a new challenge,” Nick offered. Immediately, Emma knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“Is she?” The implication seemed to be that she was perhaps not very dependable.

Emma jumped in: “My job is great. I help high school students through the college application process, which is quite a booming business. Every parent these days wants their child to get into a top school, no matter who the kid is or what his grades look like. So I help my clients see that vision through, making sure my students stand out to admissions officers. It’s very rewarding, and my boss would certainly vouch for my reliability. Feel free to reach out to any of our references. We’re good, responsible, upstanding citizens, I can assure you.” Emma realized she was rambling, and she also had a sense these were the kind of assurances a serial killer might make.

“Well, it’s been good to meet you. You’re a very nice couple. I’ll be in touch.” Mrs. Caroline ushered them outside, where they each offered her a hearty handshake.

Emma and Nick stood on the sidewalk in front of the brownstone for a long time, blinking up at the windows they hoped would soon be theirs. An autumn crisp had snuck its way into the August air, and it felt like relief—another sign, Emma told herself, although her stomach was clenched into knots.

“I feel like I just went on an awkward first date,” Nick said.

“I know. What was I thinking, telling her we’re good, upstanding citizens?”

“Did we blow it?”

“No. Or, I don’t know. Maybe. But damn it, we are good, upstanding citizens.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see whether we’ll get our man-cave-storage-space-nursery-ball-pit-heavy-metal-band-practice- room.”

“You forgot yoga nook,” Emma said. “You know what? I think we’ll get it. I can feel it. Mrs. Caroline will think it over and she’ll realize we’re the perfect tenants.”

“And what exactly does that kind of certainty feel like?”

“Like blisters, actually. Wearing these sensible heels is torture.” Emma slipped a swollen foot out of a pump. “Did you see her in those awful flip-flops? I mean, they had rhinestones. We clearly deserve this place.”

“We do.”

With that settled, Emma and Nick strolled down the street. Canopied by trees and buzzing with birds, it was so different from Emma’s current block, which was strewn with garbage and noisy with taxi horns and drunken NYU students. The couple’s silence was easy. After months of discussion and negotiation about this potential move-in, it was a comfort to know that, at least for this particular moment, they both wished for the same thing with the same degree of fervor; no ambivalence or hesitation clouded their joint wanting. What a relief, after all their tense talk of feelings and future, to finally focus on concrete details like street address and amenities.

Emma continued drafting the Habitats article in her head:


Well, not quite. Emma had gotten carried away with her pretend article—whose style, after all, was much too flowery for the Times—and the certainty she expressed within its imagined lines was just that: imagined. Already she felt the familiar anxieties seeping into her head. Were she and Nick really ready to move in together? Would the pros of cohabitation outweigh the cons of forfeiting their freedom? What would spending so much time together do to their sex life? What if they broke up and one of them had to sleep on the couch until they rode out the lease? And who would clean the toilet?

Nick had stopped. His head was cocked, gaze turned to the sky. “Look,” he said. “Parakeets.” Emma peered where he was pointing, and there they were—elegant creatures dancing around the branches, their lime-green bodies nearly blending in with the leaves. Nick had a sensitive eye for the lovely and rare, and it delighted Emma when he shared his sightings with her; they added a golden sheen to her everyday life. Here was the person she loved, the one whom she wanted, now in this moment, to share a home with.

“Parakeets in Prospect Heights,” she said, kissing Nick on the cheek. “Perfect.”

Aboard the subway, Emma perused the map. She’d hop off at Grand Street, then Nick would continue one more stop, switch to the 6 train, then shoot up the East Side to Twenty-eighth Street. They’d be thirty-five blocks apart, each in their own home. The distance spanned about a foot on the map, the same space between those walk-in closets.

“So?” Nick pinched at Emma’s waist.

“Huh?”

“I said, do you want to crash at my place tonight?”

“Oh, nah, I don’t have another dress there to go with these shoes.”

“Okay, then we’ve arrived at your destination. Stand clear of the closing doors and all that. Love you.”

Emma slipped through the train doors, then navigated the two crowded blocks to her building. She climbed the four flights that were responsible for her powerful glutes but that always reeked of cat pee and occasionally housed an actual hissing alley cat (thankfully not tonight). Opening her front door, Emma was hit by a wall of heat. The apartment had a talent for holding on to the day’s swelter long through a cool evening. She flicked on a fan and yelled out, “Hello?” knowing she’d get no response. Her roommate was an architect who lived and sometimes also slept at her office. If not for the occasional appearance or disappearance of a rolled-up blueprint or a fat textbook on electrical wiring, Emma would’ve sworn she didn’t exist. Emma didn’t mind, though; in fact, she’d chosen the girl because she seemed like the busiest of all the Craigslist applicants. Emma now wondered what it would be like to have a more present roommate, to share with Nick a set of keys, an address, a view out the window, a permanent bed. It thrilled and frightened her both.

The kitchen sink swelled with the remains of last night’s stir-fry, and Emma, for the first time feeling sullen over her lack of a dishwasher, set about tackling the dishes. As she soaped and scrubbed, her forehead gleaming with sweat, she dreamed of her new home in Brooklyn, where she and Nick would likely live come October first, just five short weeks away.

Genevieve poked her head into Emma’s office. “Hey, Feit, your ten a.m.’s here.” Genevieve straightened out the 1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies! button that she was required to wear on her lapel, and winked, like this whole receptionist gig was a joke. Emma had helped Gen land the job a few months ago after Gen had once again declared she’d given up on acting. Genevieve claimed she was filling out applications for nursing school, but Emma guessed her friend would return to auditioning within the year, as she always had shortly after previous “I’m through!” declarations.

“Thanks, Gen.”

“If you need anything—faxes, Post-its, sexual favors—you know where to find me.” She batted her eyelashes, and Emma chucked a pencil at her. “Hey, no need to get feisty. I’m leaving.”

Emma flipped through the dossier on her new client—male, Tribeca born and bred, enrolled at Stuyvesant. As always, she hoped that only the student would show, but 90 percent of the time the parents flanked their child like twin parasites, primed to run the show and suck most of the life out of their kid. This appointment proved to be no exception, as Emma rose to greet the boy and saw that both Hellis were accounted for. (“Helli” was Emma’s shorthand for Mom or Dad, a cross between “Helicopter Parent” and “hell-raiser.”) Dad looked business casual in a button-down but no tie, and Mom wore an eighties-style power suit, dragging Son along like a timid puppy. The boy, a head taller than his parents but still prepubescent, was all limbs in an oversized T-shirt he probably wished he could disappear into.

“You must be the Spencers. Please take a seat. I’m Emma Feit, and I’ll be your college advisory counselor, prepared to hold Paul’s hand through every step of the admissions process. Soon you’ll be off to the university of your dreams.” Usually Emma blew off this introductory stump speech, but when her door was open and she sensed her boss nearby, she went for it. “One note before we begin: I seem to be missing Paul’s high school transcripts and PSAT scores.”

“Oh, Paul is just entering his freshman year.” This from Mom, tap-tap-tapping her sling-back heel against a well-muscled calf. “We figured we’d get a bit of a jump on the process.” The boy smiled meekly.

“I see.” Emma had learned that when it came to their kids’ success, nothing was too crazy for Manhattan parents. That very morning she’d received a voicemail asking if she’d be willing to tutor a girl during her track practice, providing she could keep up with an eight-minute mile. So if these Hellis wanted their son to run SAT practice drills for the next three and a half years, who was Emma to deny herself all the billable hours?

“The Yorks gave you glowing reviews. They told us your nickname was Eight, since you got into all the Ivies. Very clever.” Mrs. Spencer said this like it was her own witticism, and Emma resisted an eye-roll. Her boss, Quinn, had pried this info out of Emma during her interview at 1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies! Even after Emma insisted she’d benefited from some lucky admissions fluke, Quinn had burdened her on the spot with the so-called nickname. “Although I wondered, after reading your bio, why on earth would you choose Brown over Harvard or Yale?” This woman was worse than Emma’s own mother.

“Honey, come on.” Mr. Spencer offered Emma an apologetic look.

“That’s all right,” Emma said. “Brown has an excellent Linguistics department. At the time I hoped to pursue a Ph.D. in World Languages. But here I’ve landed, and now I can help Paul get into any school he wants, then he can disappoint you guys by picking the wrong one, just like I have.” There—the first inkling of a smirk from the boy. Emma was in. She’d explain to them all of their options, from the Basic Package of SAT and Essay Skills, to the Deluxe Deal that included Interview Prep, Extracurricular Bolstering, Personality Development, Social Media Training, and more. The Hellis would spring for the works, of course. And because Emma had shown with her quip that she was on Paul’s and not his parents’ side, he’d leave slightly less terrified than he’d been when he walked in, and he’d reluctantly agree to go Deluxe. Done and done—and all before eleven a.m.

On cue at five before the hour, Genevieve appeared in the door-frame. “Ms. Feit, your next clients have arrived.” Emma was booked back-to-back today. The cusp of the school year was the busy season.

“In hot demand, I see,” Mrs. Spencer said, clutching her purse. “I guess we’ll have to carve out some of your precious time before it’s all snatched up.”

“Wonderful to meet you.” Emma shook all three hands—Mom’s a death grip, Dad’s and Son’s both like putty—and guided them out of her office.

Emma’s next client, Sophia Cole, sat cross-legged on the waiting room floor, drawing. Emma’s view of the sketchpad was blocked, but from the way Sophia kept not-so-slyly glancing up at the set of Hellis and Son seated opposite her, all in crisp Ralph Lauren polos, Emma guessed the trio was involuntarily sitting for a family portrait.

“Sophia, so nice to see you.” Emma greeted every client with some version of this statement, but she actually meant it with Sophia Cole. Sophia had been seeing her for the past six months, ever since she got a 600, the lowest possible score, on the SATs. Her first session, Sophia had slunk into Emma’s office on her own, sans Hellis. Besides telling Emma that her mother had threatened to take away her art supplies if she didn’t show up, she’d refused to speak. But Emma had suspected from the start that she was not dealing with a moron; quite the opposite. After a few futile attempts to engage the girl, Emma had let her be with her pad and pencil. With five minutes left of the session, Emma had tried again: “So, what happened during the test?” Sophia, eyeing her warily, had slid over her notepad: In beautifully rendered detail was an illustration of a middle-aged man in a leather jacket and fedora, a cigarette dangling from his sneer; below that, the same man was pictured, now naked, penetrating a buxom woman from behind; at the bottom of the page, the man was shown curled up on the ground, lying in a pool of blood.

Emma had guessed Sophia expected a disapproving reaction, but she’d said simply, “You’re quite the artist.”

“Dad be a bad cad. Bed a babe. Dad dead.”

“Excuse me?”

The girl repeated herself: “Dad be a bad cad. Bed a babe. Dad dead.”

Emma had glanced back at the drawing, then up at Sophia, whose eyebrows were arched with satisfaction. Then Emma burst into laughter. “So that’s how you answered the multiple choice, D-A-D B-E A B-A-D C-A-D, et cetera, right? Clever. I mean quite dumb, but clever, too. Your mom mentioned something about the proctor confiscating a picture.” In fact, Emma had realized, it took nearly as much skill to get zero answers correct as it took to get them all right.

Sophia’s eyes had glinted, and Emma had known they’d get along thereafter. She’d passed the girl’s test, plus Sophia seemed like the type of teen Emma wished she’d had the guts to be back in high school. Since that first session, Sophia had agreed to complete just one practice exam, and she’d scored perfectly, proving she probably needed a shrink, not Emma. But at Mrs. Cole’s insistence, Emma was charged with convincing Sophia that college was key to life success. Because she liked the girl, Emma had agreed to the mission, playing halfhearted ambassador to the illustrious life of a university coed.

Now Sophia looked up from the waiting room floor and angled her drawing to face Emma. Pictured on the page were three cartoon wasps, all in matching polo shirts and accessorized—a strand of pearls for the female wasp, a Rolex for the male, and a golf club for the child. Despite being insects, the drawings bore strong resemblances to the human trio sitting across the room.

“Get it?” asked Sophia. “White Anglo-Saxon—”

“Yeah.” Emma cut her off, eyeing the family anxiously. “Okay, troublemaker, let’s go. I want to tell you about this really interesting program at RISD.”

“Feit, psst!” It was Genevieve, beckoning from the front desk. Emma wondered if her friend had glimpsed Sophia’s caricatures or overheard their exchange.

“Meet you in a minute,” Emma said to Sophia, then approached Gen. “What’s up?”

“So what, do you have a stalker now?”

“Excuse me?”

“I got a call from a, let’s see”—she flipped through her messages dramatically, wrinkling her forehead as if she was about to report on a client’s poor SAT scores—“a Mrs. Caroline. She claimed to be a landlady, but sounded more like a psychopath. So when she asked for your boss I just pretended to be Quinn.” Gen began impersonating the CEO’s raspy voice and overly articulated vowels, which made Emma laugh. “Why does she need to know how tidy you keep your office, your day-to-day mood patterns, and—what was it?—whether I predict you’ll still be working here ten years down the line?”

“Ten years?” Emma couldn’t help the outburst. The thought of still doing this job a decade from now made her imagine a leap from their twelfth-floor office; come 2022, Manhattan parents would probably start signing up their kindergarteners for 1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies! Plus, Emma had trouble committing to plans more than a week in advance, never mind a decade; she liked to keep her options open.

“Tell me about it. So who is this Caroline lady?”

“She actually is who she says. And her apartment is beyond incredible.”

“So incredible that you’d put up with her as your landlady?”

“Yep.”

“And what does that dreamy boyfriend of yours think of this Mrs. Caroline?”

“Nick agrees. Trust me, this is the place for us.”

“All right, then. By the way, I told her I’m considering signing you up for Hoarders and that you’re this close to getting fired.”

“Gee thanks, Gen. You’re a gem.”

“By the way, that family out there is your twelve o’clock. That kid’s some kind of football legend at Horace Mann, but his grades are appalling. The parents want him in tutoring six days a week.”

“Oy, did you tell them we’re closed weekends? And that they don’t need to arrive more than an hour early?”

“Hey, I just answer the phones.” Gen smiled mischievously. Emma appreciated that her friend had the ears of a bat; she was a pro at eavesdropping on the waiting room chatter while pretending to look busy. If she ever returned to the stage, she’d kill it playing some snooty Manhattan mom or spoiled city kid; she’d done extensive field research. “Now up you go, off to work.”

“Sophia’s probably pulling a Michelangelo as we speak, painting a mural on my ceiling.”

“Better go nip that in the bud. I’m not sure the WASPs would appreciate nude art in your office.” So then she had seen Sophia’s drawing—what a sneak.

“On it.” Emma scurried down the hall, pumped for her weekly spar session with the sullen girl genius.

Nick examined his scrawling on the chalkboard, lamenting the fact that his handwriting looked about as grown-up as his fifth graders’:

Class 232 Rules:


If only everyone everywhere followed these rules, Nick thought, the world would be a much happier place. Not that his classroom was any kind of utopia—he shuddered to imagine what kind of curveballs would come at him this year. Ten-year-olds who still peed their pants? Boys and girls trying to figure out how sex worked, firsthand in the supply closet? Parents complaining that certain units—dinosaurs, the Civil War, fractions, you name it—were incompatible with their religion or politics? In his twelve years of teaching, Nick had weathered it all. Still, it was gratifying for him to establish a set of rules at the outset and at least aim to build a genuine community.

Nick had asked all the parents of his incoming class to send photos of their kids during a happy moment—photos that he was now tacking up over each name. Last year Nick had participated, too, posting a picture of Emma and him paddle-boarding in Costa Rica. They’d spent most of that vacation laid out on the beach reading aloud to each other, she from Pride and Prejudice (decent, if a little dry) and he from Lord of the Rings (mind-blowing, even the third time); that was Nick’s happy place. But his students had ribbed him mercilessly about the girl in the blue bikini, chanting during chaotic moments, “Mr. O’Hare and his girlfriend sitting in a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G . . .” Then Nick would have to become a taskmaster, a role he hated, and point the kids back to Rule #1. Eventually he’d taken down the photo and was thankful that none of the kids seemed to notice.

“What next, Mensa?” Nick poked a finger into the cage and tapped the gerbil’s furry head. He wondered how the little guy would adjust to the new batch of kids who would come storming in the following week. Mensa began spinning wildly in his wheel.

“I know, it’s a thrill,” said Nick. “Another year, another fresh start.” The wheel’s squeaking didn’t bother Nick, but it drove Emma bonkers. He kept Mensa at home over the summer, and even from the other end of the apartment with a cloth over the cage, Emma complained that the wheel’s turning kept her up at night. Nick was relieved that their cohabitation would coincide with the start of the school year, when students would take turns pet-sitting the gerbil on nights and weekends.

Nick scanned his classroom, and decided to set out the seeds and soil and paper cups that the kids would need for the bean plant experiment. It was amazing, really, how varying the rate of watering or the amount of sunlight made such a difference: a lush, healthy plant beaming in the sun, versus its gangly, shriveled counterpoint languishing in the shade. Science was awesome.

Badoop! Nick checked his phone—a text from Emma: Scored client this a.m. 14 yrs old, mom = nutcase. Also, Mrs. C called Gen for rec. TOTAL nutcase. But she’s calling references, so a good sign, right?

He thought about calling back, but Emma kept her cell on silent at work, and reaching her office line required a ten-minute chat with Genevieve first; Nick wasn’t in the mood. He texted back: Brava on the client. You’re a star! Good sign, yes.

A twinge of nausea gripped at Nick’s gut and he dropped into one of the child-sized chairs. Mrs. Caroline was a concern—he worried how she’d respond if he and Emma needed an exterminator or a plumbing repair. But the queasiness felt like more than just nerves over a landlady.

It was a new variable—living with Emma. Nick breathed deeply, wondering whether the new arrangement would be like adding sunlight or taking it away. Would their relationship flourish or wither? He wished he could keep a control going, too. Because Nick liked the control. He was wary of taking their strong relationship and testing it under new conditions, as if their lives were some kind of science experiment.

To calm himself, Nick glanced at the schedule he’d mapped out for his class—each day divided into forty-five-minute blocks of reading, math, et cetera—a routine that was soothing in its structure. Nick marveled when Emma rattled off all she had going on in a particular day, always different from the previous one. She loved the unpredictable and—as much as she complained about it—relished the crises of her high-strung clients.

Sweet, brilliant, wonderful Emma, who’d been pushing for months to share a home with him. It was true they were both sick of lugging clothes and t. . .