“Nice to meet you,” I said.

He had the kindest eyes I’d ever seen, next to Chuck and Phaedra. They were patient and a bit excited and curious, too.

“This is my brother Travis and my sister-in-law, Abby.”

I shook Travis’s hand and then Abby’s. Her long caramel hair cascaded over her shoulders, much like mine. She was shorter than me, and Travis was taller than Taylor. Travis was smiling, happy simply to meet me, but Abby closely watched me, taking in every detail, likely wondering what was special about me that had led Taylor to bring me home.

“Well, it’s getting late. Let’s get you settled in,” Jim said.

The screen door complained as he pulled it open, and I followed Taylor inside.

The home was well worn. The carpets looked a lot like mine, and the furniture was so old that each piece had its own story to tell. The hallway opened up into the kitchen with a set of stairs on the other side.

“You two can take Thomas’s room,” Jim said. “We’ll see you back down here for dinner. Abby and Trav cooked.”

Taylor arched a brow. “Should I be afraid?”

Abby batted at his arm.

“All right,” Taylor said. “We’ll put our stuff away and see you in a second. Where’s Trent?”

“Chicken Joe’s tonight,” Jim said.

“He’s still doing that, huh?” Taylor said, glancing at me for half a second.

“Just about once a week now,” Jim said.

Travis and Abby left us for the kitchen, and Taylor took my hand, guiding me up the stairs and down another hall. He stopped at the last door on the right and twisted the knob, pushing through.

Taylor set the bag down on a loose board, making it creak and reveal itself beneath the carpet.

I hadn’t stayed over with friends very often as a child, and leaving for college had been difficult. Moving in above the Bucksaw had been a relief but also stressful. I never did well in foreign places, but the disrepair and decades-old furniture and wallpaper felt like a place I could call home.

My palm fell flat against my forehead. “I can’t believe I’m here. They’re just next door.”

“I can’t believe you’re here either,” Taylor said, reverence in his voice.

The bedroom was decorated with plastic sports trophies, medals, old pictures, and a blanket of dust. The whole house smelled of dinner, stale smoke, and a hint of men’s aftershave.

I took a step toward the wall, the setting sun glinting off a portrait of a very young Jim and Taylor’s mother, Diane.

“Where is she?” I asked, turning to him. “Your mom.”

Taylor rubbed the back of his neck. “She’s … not here. She passed away when I was a kid.”

My mouth fell open, and I snapped it shut. “Why haven’t you told me?”