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“That’s less alarming than furniture theft.”

I look down at the blue smear. “Do you know where I can get it fixed?”

“There’s an upholstery shop a few blocks from here.”

“Can you show me?”

She takes my phone, starts the walking directions, and hands it back. “It will tell you where to turn.”

I carry the cushion toward Main Street.

People notice me. That isn’t new after the days I spent painting in the park. A conversation outside the coffee shop stops as I pass. Footsteps slow behind me, and someone says my name softly enough that I don’t think I’m supposed to hear it.

I keep walking. A teenage girl says, “That’s him.” Her friend calls after me. “Can I get a picture?”

I stop. “Yes.”

She comes closer, takes the picture, thanks me, and leaves. I continue toward the upholstery shop. The man inside looks at the cushion under my arm, then at me.

“Paint?”

“Yes.”

He examines the blue smear for a few seconds. “I can probably get most of it out.”

“How much?”

He tells me.

“I can pay.”

The words still feel good. He tells me I can pick it up Friday, so I save a voice note in my phone with the day and the name of the shop.

When I step back onto Main Street, the cushion is gone from under my arm and my copy of the lease is folded in my pocket. I can feel the shape of it against my leg as I walk.

I signed my name on a lease. I went to the appointment without Laura, chose the place myself, called Blair for the help I needed, and arranged to have the chair repaired. None of it feels like leaving Laura behind.

Near the corner, Locke’s voice comes back to me. Because I wanted her in the life I was making.

My fingers find the lease in my pocket again, and the first thing I want is Laura.

I want her to see the windows and the wall where I could hang three park-sized canvases without running out of room. I want to tell her Carl talks too much, that Blair made him change the lease, and that the upholstery man thinks he can save the cushion. I want to hear what she says when I tell her I signed it myself.

I want to know if she’ll laugh when I tell her Blair accused me of stealing furniture. I think of Locke’s workshop, of almost saying Laura’s name when he talked about love. Then last night, her hand over mine while she fell asleep.

I already know what this is. I just haven’t said the word.

Love.

I love Laura.

I stay where I am while cars move through the intersection and people pass behind me, my hand resting over the folded lease in my pocket. Nothing about the realization feels urgent or frightening. It is just true.

I have a place I chose for myself. Work I want to do there. People I can call when I need help. A life that is mine.

And the first thing I want to do with it is go home and tell Laura.

Chapter Seventeen