The word cuts. And the dagger twists in my gut at the idea of losing this place—the only home I’ve ever really known. This house is so familiar to me. I know which floorboards of the steel-blue deck creak underfoot and exactly which siding pieces rattle when the wind hits them just right. I know the window over the kitchen sink is a tad off-kilter, making it hard to open, and the cats love how the shower drips into the tub long after I’m done. The bedroom’s ceiling fan wobbles at high speed, and I’m probably the only human alive who can make use of the oddly shaped, nearly-tiny second ‘bedroom.’ This is my home.

Now, I don’t belong here, either.

“I love this place. I don’t know where I’d go.” The words spill out in a stream of consciousness, no filter, and I immediately regret them. I have absolutely no business making him feel bad. He, and his grandfather before him, have made me feel welcome and safe here for a decade, even when I shouldn’t have been here on my own. How can I ask for more?

“Sorry, Pete. You’ve been a terrific landlord.”

“I’m sorry things didn’t work out with Ashe,” he says, still wringing his hat. “I didn’t know you were friends with Marigold.”

“It’s new.”

“She’s… I, um, we were friends in high school.” His eyes lock on his work boots as he shuffles his feet at the bottom of the stairs. “She’s a nice person.”

“Yes, and a talented artist. Like you.”

His cheeks redden. Pete is a carpenter. He makes a living from craft shows and odd jobs. He built my porch and the rocking chair that sits on it. He’s also surprised me with carpentry gifts over the years—a handmade cat tower, shelves, wooden planters, and once a hanging lamp that fits perfectly over my dining table.

“You know what, I bet she’d love seeing your trains.”

Pete perks up. “Really? You think so?”

He’s also a model train enthusiast. His workshop is larger than their ranch house, and only half is devoted to his carpentry projects.

“Absolutely. Maybe you should ask her to see them sometime.”

He smiles weakly. “If you need longer than July, I can put Aunt Charity off until the fall. No later, though. Her arthritis gets worse in the cold.”

“Far be it from me to keep your family apart. I’ll figure something out. Thanks, Pete.”

He lumbers away like a walking surfboard. I tuck his news behind my smile; that’s a problem for another day.

“I think he likes you,” I tell Marigold once inside.

She huffs. “He said my lines were too crooked at my first art show.”