It was a house for a family, that was for sure. Not like my crooked little place.

I knocked on the door, wishing I’d thought to bring something.

Mickey answered. “Hey! Heard you two got it on last night.”

I couldn’t help a smile. “Wow. He spilled, did he?”

“Well, we agreed that if one of us was in a relationship, the other should know. Well done. He looks very happy. Come on in. He’s giving Marcus a bath.”

The house was beautiful—different from when I was here last, when Noah and I were still hanging on to the threads of our relationship. Back in the day, Mrs. Pelletier would pop out of her study—she’d been a science editor for a news organization—and tell me to help myself to whatever was in the fridge. The floor plan was now open and bright, wide oak planks having replaced the beige carpeting. Ridiculously tidy, with sturdy furniture, and all the beautiful touches you’d expect from a carpenter. Cabinets with glass panes, a beautiful mantelpiece, built-in bookcases.

I followed Mickey toward the kitchen, then jolted to a stop.

There, on the stair landing, was the painting I’d made for him when I was sixteen years old. The one he’d refused to give up for Gillian.

Just a blue sky with soft, golden clouds.

No. There was nothing “just” about it. I hadn’t seen that painting in years, and it hit me. The sky was cerulean, the clouds lit with gold and edged with Noah-red. The sun had been just about to rise that day, and I’d painted the sky from memory, not a photo. I could almost see the clouds drifting past on the soft breeze and hear the birds, feel the damp air of the early morning and smell the muffins baking at Sweetie Pies. I’d ridden my bike out to watch, to the bridge near where I now lived, in fact, and with all that young love in my heart, made this painting for Noah.

It was so beautiful.

“In here,” Mickey called.

I snapped myself out of my reverie and went into the kitchen, which was cobalt blue and white. “Did the photographers just leave?” I asked. “Seriously. What man has a white kitchen?”

“I know. I can’t wait till Marcus starts walking and his grubby little hands turn everything gray. I’ll feel less inferior then. I’m not quite the housekeeper Noah is. When are you going to come over to my place, by the way? Tonight would work, since it’s Noah’s night with the little prince. Hang on, you probably want to nail the carpenter, right? See what I did there?” She laughed. “Don’t scar my kid. Then again, Marcus does sleep through everything. Even that storm yesterday. So if you two were going to fool around—”