Page 48 of Slapshot Baby

Three: whatever you do, don't look at the wall to your left when you walk in.

I look at the wall.

My whole body flushes hot enough to fog the windows.

"Ava?"

I snap my attention to Kai, who is standing by the kitchen island in a t-shirt and joggers, watching me hover in his doorway like I've forgotten how doors work.

"Sorry. Your entryway has interesting proportions." I gesture vaguely at nothing. "Designer brain. Can't turn it off."

"You're critiquing my doorway?"

"Professionally, yes." I unclip Biscuit's leash. "This is Biscuit. Now, you’ve officially met. She bites strangers. You're technically a stranger, so hold still and let her decide."

Biscuit sniffs Kai's outstretched hand. Her ears flatten. One long, suspicious inhale. Then she sneezes directly onto his knuckles and trots into the living room.

"What does the sneeze mean?" Kai asks, washing his hand.

"She tolerates you. Don't let it go to your head."

Mira is on the couch with her laptop. She looks up, sees Biscuit commandeer the most expensive rug in the apartment, and grins at me.

I set the pastry box on the counter, keeping my eyes on the granite, the cabinets, the stove. Safe objects. Objects I have no history with.

My peripheral vision catches the hallway to the bedroom. I can feel the ghost of his hand on the zipper of my dress, pulling it down in the dark.

I unpack the pastries with more focus than the task requires.

Kai reaches for the pastry box. His hand moves past it, opens the wrong cabinet, stares at the mugs inside like he's never seen them.

"Plates are above the sink," Mira says without looking up.

He closes the cabinet, opens the one above the sink and takes out a plate. His jaw is tight.

"Since when are the plates above the sink?" he asks.

"Since three years ago," Mira says.

He puts a pastry on the plate without responding. But I see him glance at the cabinets like they've betrayed him.

I watch him open two more wrong drawers looking for a knife. He finds it on the third try and cuts the pastry with more force than a croissant requires.

"Kai."

"I'm fine."

He's not fine. He's standing in a kitchen he chose, arranged, and lived in for three years, and he can't find a knife. Every wrong drawer is a small humiliation he absorbs without comment.

Seeing him like this, lost in his own home, something in me softens.

I didn’t come here today with a plan.

But now I know what I need to do.

After we eat, Mira leaves for a meeting, and I start with the hall closet.

"What are you doing?" Kai asks.