Page 215 of That Rush

“I agree Paige should know this relationship comes with a neurological condition.”

Adrienne rolls another coat of deep green paint across the window trim. “He’s been like this since birth. We’ve investigated every treatment.”

“Neither of you has ever hung a shelf properly.”

“We were children,” Axel says.

“You were twenty-three.”

“That’s still a child to a Slade.”

I slide a shim beneath the bookcase. The bubble settles dead center, and Axel mutters something about obsessive assholes before driving the first screw into the stud.

The room breathes differently than it did this morning. A new entrance opens to a private porch on the west side, its lock turning smoothly. On the desk, a sealed envelope holds every key. An electric fireplace glows beneath the built-in shelves, and a wide chair waits in the corner, a lamp positioned so Paige can adjust it without uncurling from a book. The desk, clear of the window seat, is angled to catch the mountain view.

Mom presses both hands into the seat cushion, testing the firmness. “This needs another inch of padding.”

“She doesn’t want to sink into it.”

“She also doesn’t want her ass going numb halfway through a book.”

“I ordered the density Paige likes.”

Four faces turn toward me.

Adrienne lowers her paint roller. “You know the cushion density she likes?”

“She complained about the chairs at the library after a three-hour inventory meeting.”

Axel studies me. “I’ve known you for thirty-five years, and I’m confident you’ve never listened to anything I’ve said for three consecutive hours.”

“You’ve never said anything worth remembering.”

Mom hides a smile as she tugs the cover back into place. “The cushion stays. It needs a blanket, though.”

She unfolds the soft gray throw she brought and drapes it across one end, then moves the lamp closer so the switch sits within easy reach. She has spent the afternoon making small adjustments without filling the room with decorative clutter Paige would hate. The room is free of framed family photographs or cheerful signs—nothing that would try to tell her who to be inside it.

Dad carries a narrow table onto the porch and sets it between the hammock hooks. “Lot of work for a room we’re not supposed to mention.”

“You’re here because you own a truck,” I say.

“I own several.”

“Exactly.”

Adrienne steps off the ladder. “We know we can’t fix this for you.”

“That hasn’t stopped this family before,” Axel says.

“It should have,” I tell him.

The room falls so still I hear the drill stop in his hand.

I set the level on the desk. “I wanted permanence so badly I started acting like I owned Paige’s choices. I gave her a key she never asked for, cleared space in my house, and answered for both of us like we’d already agreed on a future.”

Dad folds his arms. “We joined in.”

“You followed my lead. I made it sound settled.”