She’s sitting on the four-poster bed that she insisted she didn’t need but kept looking at longingly when we took her furniture shopping. Otter had been the one to notice that, and even though the price tag had made me a little cross-eyed, he’s a big pushover, and that was that.

She’s wearing jeans and a shirt with an image of Nikola Tesla on the front, her version of a celebrity crush. It’s weird, but I survived Tyson and his Anderson Cooper phase, so I don’t think too much about it. Her hair is braided back, something Otter had done for her this morning. He’d gotten so good at it, and I found it ridiculously endearing, feeling the need to record it every time on my phone. At last count, I had twenty-three videos of just him braiding her hair, both of them with their tongues sticking out between their teeth.

She glances up at me before looking down at her hands.

“Hi.”

“Hi,” she says, voice soft.

“He didn’t mean it.”

“I know.”

“I know you do,” I say. “But I think you deserve to hear it out loud. So. He didn’t mean it. And I can promise you that when he’s done feeling sorry for himself, he’ll come back and tell you exactly that.”

She picks at the frayed edges of her jeans. “Okay.”

“Can I sit on your bed?”

She rolls her eyes. “You don’t have to ask.”

“It’s your room.”

“In your house.”

“In our house,” I correct her. “And this is your room. So whatever you say goes.”

She narrows her eyes.

“Within reason,” I add hastily.

“Dammit,” she mutters.

“Um. Don’t curse. And other parentisms.”

She sighs, long and loud.

“Wow, you’ve got that teenage-angst thing down pat. Good job.”

“Sit down if you’re going to.”

I do, making sure to sit as close to her as I can without touching. She’s a little weird about touching. She gets uncomfortable if people hang on to her and doesn’t like to be hugged unless she’s the one initiating it. Her therapist gave us some medical blah, blah, blah about it, but Izzie said that’s just who she is, so we took her at her word. She’s getting better at it, but we still respect the boundaries she sets. It’s only fair to her.

“This is your house too,” I say. “And even if you don’t believe that right now, it won’t change anything. You’ll get there.”

“It’s called the Green Monstrosity. It’s the color of nightmares. Maybe I don’t want it to be my house.”

I shrug. “So we’ll move.”

She looks up at me, startled. “What?”

“If you don’t want this to be your house, we’ll move.”

“You would do that,” she says, sounding shocked. “For me.”

“Otter and I both would. Because you’re with us, Izzie. For good. And if this doesn’t feel like home, we’ll find a place for you that does. It may need to wait a little while, until after the twins come, but we’d do it. And if you didn’t want to stay here during that time, that’s okay too. Dom and Ty would—”