The doorbell rings. I stop midsentence and run to the entrance. Which takes me, like, two whole minutes, proving my point that this house is plenty large for two people.

I wish I could say that Liam Harding has shit taste in home decor. That he abuses inspirational-quotes decals, buys plastic fruit at Ikea, sticks neon bar lights everywhere. Sadly, either he knows how to put together a pretty nice house interior, or his FGP Corp blood money paid to hire someone who does. The place is an elegant combination of traditional and modern pieces; I’m almost certain that whoever furnished it can correctly use the word palette in a sentence, and that the way the deep reds, forest greens, and soft grays complement the hardwood floors is a little more than accidental. And there’s the fact that everywhere looks so . . . simple. With a home as large as this one, I’d be tempted to stuff every room with tables and sideboards and rugs, but Liam somehow limited himself to bare necessities. Couches, a few comfortable chairs, shelves full of books. That’s it. The house is airy, full of light, sparsely decorated in warm tones, and all the more beautiful for it. “Minimalist,” Sadie told me when I gave her a video tour. “Really well done, too.” I believe my response was a snarl.

And then there’s the art on the walls, which is unwelcomely growing on me. Pictures of lakes at sunrise and waterfalls at sunset, thick woods and lone trees, frozen grounds and blooming fields. The occasional wild animal going about its day, always in black and white. I don’t know why, but I’ve been catching myself staring at them. The framing is simple, the subject mundane, but there’s something about them. Like whoever took those photos really connected with the settings. Like they tried to truly capture them, to take home a piece of them.

I wonder who the photographer is, but I can find no signature. It’s probably some starving Georgetown MFA grad, anyway. They poured their soul into the series hoping it’d be bought by someone who appreciates art, and instead here it is. Owned by a total ass. I bet Liam didn’t even choose them. I bet they were just a tax-deductible purchase for him. Maybe he figured that in the long run a nice collection is as good as stock dividends.

“I’ll need a signature,” the UPS guy tells me when I open the door. He’s chewing bubblegum and looks about fifteen. I feel decrepit inside. “You’re not William K. Harding, are you?”

William K. It’s almost cute. I hate it. “Nope.”

“Is he home?”

“No.” Mercifully.

“Is he your husband?”

I laugh. Then I laugh some more. Then I realize that the UPS guy is squinting at me like I’m the Wicked Witch of the West. “Um, no. Sorry. He’s my . . . roommate.”

“Right. Can you sign for your roomie?”

“Sure.” I reach for the pen, but my hand stills in midair when I notice the FGP Corp insignia on the envelope.