Page 94 of Roadrunner

We were on the back porch on a Saturday morning when Riley said it.

Not dramatically. Just the next true thing.

“I’ve been thinking about the house,” he said.

“What house?”

“This one,” he said. “The rental.”

I wrapped both hands around my coffee. “What about it?”

“Lease runs out in March,” he said.

“I know.”

He looked at the yard. At the saguaro. At the mountains. “I’ve got a house,” he said. “Three bedrooms. Good yard. Better than this.” He held my gaze. “I’d like you and Arthur to be in it.”

The morning was quiet.

“Is it big enough for Martina?” I asked.

He looked at me. “Three bedrooms.”

“Martina comes with us,” I said. “Wherever we go.”

“She going to tell me my kitchen is wrong?”

“Without question,” I said.

He looked at the mountains. “Fine.”

“That’s it? Fine?”

“She raised you,” he said. “She’s family.” One shoulder lifted. “Fine.”

I looked at my coffee.

“Okay,” I said.

He glanced at me. “Okay?”

“We’ll move in,” I said. “March.”

He looked out at the yard for a moment, and something in his shoulders loosened, a tension I hadn’t clocked as tension until it was gone. “I’ve had that third bedroom sitting empty for six years,” he said. “Kept telling myself I’d turn it into a proper workshop. Never did.” He glanced at me sideways. “Guess some part of me knew what it was actually for.”

“That’s either very romantic or slightly unsettling,” I said.

“Take it either way you want,” he said. “Both are true.”

Something eased out of his shoulders. Settled. Like the conversation was the formality and the decision had been made elsewhere, earlier, by both of us.

“Good,” he said.

We drank our coffee.

“Riley,” I said.

“Yeah.”