Page 185 of Where the Snakes Sleep

But he doesn’t—progress.

The cottage behind me barely looks like the place I inherited.

I have tried very hard not to turn it into something unrecognizable, so the pale stone exterior has been cleaned rather than replaced; the little imperfections remain—the chips around the windows, the uneven places where repairs were made decades apart, the faint discoloration near the foundation that no amount of scrubbing completely removed.

The shutters are no longer peeling badly enough to pose a tetanus risk, although the one beside me is currently half-painted a muted green after I spent two solid weeks changing my mind about the color.

The roof doesn’t leak anymore, the plumbing no longer survives exclusively through spite and French witchcraft, and there is actual insulation in the attic.

Two windows have been replaced, the rest restored, and the kitchen floor no longer dips alarmingly beside the sink.

The kitchen itself still looks old, because I wanted it to. I kept the battered wooden table and had somebody repair the chairs instead of throwing them out, and the cabinet doors have been sanded and painted rather than ripped away for whatever minimalist monstrosity the contractor originally suggested.

I did repair the gaping hole I made in the wall. Though I can’t help picturing a little secret cubby there, the kind of hidey-hole you’d crawl into on a rainy afternoon.

The bathroom is brand-new, tiled in soft dove-gray stone and polished chrome, every faucet gleaming as if it’s never been touched—thank God.

But most importantly, there are no more secrets behind these walls.

Probably.

Camille sets the bakery box on my wrought-iron table, its ceramic top mottled with paint flecks and sunlight. He tilts his head toward the shutter propped against the wall and says, “You missed a spot.” He’s pointing at a pale streak of unpainted wood just above the latch.

I flip him off.

“Ah,” he says, folding his sunglasses by the arms and slipping them into his breast pocket. “The universal language.”

“Fluent,” I reply, and I mean it.

Damn, he looks good.

Annoyingly good.

Six months have changed some things about him, and none of the things that matter. There is still a faint scar near his temple where Henri’s cane split the skin, lighter than the surrounding brown now but not too bad. The swelling disappeared within weeks. The concussion took longer, although Camille spent the entire recovery period insisting headaches were “manageable” even when they were very clearly not.

“You’re staring,” Camille says.

“I’m objectifying you.”

“Thank you for clarifying.”

“You’re welcome.”

His gaze drifts over me as though he’s evaluating a work in progress. I’m wearing faded shorts spattered with emerald and sage paint, an ancient T-shirt with the sleeves chopped off, and sneakers that were white once, back when they were new. My hair clings damp to my neck, and I’m sure my forearms look polka-dotted. He’s imagining something very different.

I gesture toward the bakery box.

“You never answered me.”

“Sit.”

“That was not the question.”

“Sit, and I will show you.”

“Bossy.”

He watches as I lower myself into the chipped metal chair, then takes the one beside mine rather than across from me. We learned early that “across” can feel like an interrogation, while “beside” is always a choice.