Sit. Stay.

Hannah

By the time the movers leave, my dresser is blocking the hallway and my mother has called four times.

I stand in the doorway with the receipt in one hand and a ring of keys in the other, watching the truck pull away. The men have taken everything off it, just as promised. They haven’t put everything where I wanted it, which was also in the contract, although I hadn’t appreciated that distinction until twenty minutes ago. My bedroom is on the other side of a narrow turn, and the dresser is apparently just wide enough to make that turn everybody else’s problem.

The apartment smells like fresh paint over something older. The walls are cream, the floors have been refinished in patches, and one of the windows in the living room sticks halfway up. None of that bothered me when I signed the lease. I liked the second-floor windows, the solid front door, and the fact that the leasing agent had asked about my income instead of who my father was.

I pocket the keys and try to move the dresser again. With the drawers stacked in the bedroom, the frame ought to be manageable. I get one end off the floor, shuffle backward, and immediately wedge a corner against the doorjamb. It leaves a thin white mark across the wood. I stare at it for a moment, furious with myself, then set the dresser down before I make things worse.

My phone starts buzzing in my back pocket. It stops, then starts again before I can get it out.

MOM, the screen tells me. Beneath her name are the three calls I didn’t answer while carrying boxes upstairs. I let the fourth go unanswered, too, and send a message instead. I’m moved in. Everything’s fine. I’ll call tomorrow.

The typing dots appear almost at once. Then they disappear. I wait, leaning against the wall, until the screen goes dark without a reply. I know how the conversation would go if I called. She’d ask whether the neighborhood is safe, whether I have enough towels, whether I’ve thought again about the condo. Somewhere in the middle she’d mention that Caleb has been asking after me, as though the two subjects naturally belong together.

I put the phone away. I have a bedroom to reach, and there’s still a box of dishes sitting in my car.

The dresser hasn’t become any lighter while I’ve been distracted. I get my fingers beneath the bottom rail and lift, trying to keep the weight away from the newly painted trim. The piece moves about six inches before the other end catches. I have to lower it, work around to the far side, and start again. By the third attempt, the back of my shirt is damp and a strand of hair has escaped the knot at the top of my head.

A door opens across the hall.

I look up, expecting another tenant coming home. Instead, a man steps out of the apartment opposite mine with a set of keys in his hand. He’s wearing dark jeans, worn black boots, and a T-shirt that leaves most of his tattooed arms uncovered. His hair is blond with darker roots, in the sort of disorder that makes me think he hasn’t been anywhere near a mirror today. Silver catches the light at one ear.

He stops when he sees the dresser. There’s white paint on one corner, and judging by the way his eyes go to the doorframe, he spots the matching scrape immediately.

“I’m getting it inside,” I tell him. It comes out more defensively than I intend. “The movers got it this far and decided the turn was impossible.”

“With the drawers in?” he asks.

“No. I took those out. It still won’t go.” I put my hands back under the frame to demonstrate, although I can’t imagine why I’m suddenly so interested in proving myself to a stranger.

“You’re lifting one end higher than the other. That’s why the corner keeps catching.” He starts to move past me, then stops. “Sorry. You didn’t ask for a lecture.”

“I didn’t ask for anything. They left, and I thought I could manage.” My shoulder is sore from the last attempt. “There’s a difference.”

He looks at the space between the dresser and the doorway. “There is. I can take that end if you want. We’ll have to back it out first.”

I want to say I can do it alone, mostly because I’ve been insisting on that for weeks. I also want the dresser out of my doorway before someone trips over it. I step back and let go. “Please. And watch the corner. I’ve already paid for the damage I’m going to do today.”

He bends at the far end, checks where the weight will sit, and waits for me to take hold before he lifts. He doesn’t try to turn the whole thing himself. When I tell him the bedroom door is the one on the left, he carries his end backward while I guide mine through the hall. We have to lower it once and take the corner at an angle, but it gets through without scraping anything else.

Inside the bedroom, he looks at the blank wall opposite the closet. “There?”

“A little farther from the outlet, if you can.”

He moves it without comment. We set it down together. The room is still crowded with boxes and loose drawers, but at least there’s space to walk. I push a piece of hair behind my ear and realize my hands are shaking from the effort.

“Thank you. I was starting to think I’d have to sleep beside it in the hallway.”

He glances at the uncovered mattress propped against the wall. “You’ve got bigger problems than that.”

“I’ve got sheets. They’re in a box somewhere.”

He gives the mattress another look, then turns toward the door. There’s no lingering or attempt to start a conversation. After spending the past month listening to men explain my options to me, I almost don’t know what to do with somebody who just helps and goes.

“Wait. I’m Hannah,” I say when he reaches the living room.

He stops with one hand near the doorframe. Up close, there’s a narrow scar beside his cheek, pale enough that I might’ve missed it in the hall. The tattoos on his forearms are crowded together, flowers and dark shapes winding around one another.

“Cole.”

“You live across from me?”

He looks over his shoulder at the open door opposite mine. “Yeah.”

I laugh, mostly at myself. “Right. Stupid question.”

“It’s been a long day.” He says it without a smile, but there’s no bite in it.

I start to offer him the cash I’d meant to use for the moving crew’s tip, then stop before I take it out of my pocket. He’s already walking toward the hall, and I haven’t actually asked whether he wants anything for carrying the dresser. I don’t want to turn a favor into an awkward negotiation while we’re standing in my doorway.

“I owe you one,” I say instead.

“You don’t.” He crosses the hall, pulls his own door shut, and takes the stairs before I can argue.

I close my door, leaving the lock undone while I go down for the dishes. The building isn’t fancy, but the hallway’s clean and somebody has put a little pot of artificial flowers on the windowsill at the landing. Outside, my car is parked beneath a tree that sheds tiny leaves even though it isn’t autumn. I brush them off the windshield with the side of my hand before opening the trunk.

At the condo, a maintenance company dealt with the grounds, the windows, and anything that stopped working. I never had to look up a number or wonder who’d be available on a weekend. The place came with the engagement. It was one of those arrangements nobody ever described as an arrangement, because Caleb and I were going to get married and the condo belonged to my family. There hadn’t seemed to be a reason to keep score.

Now there’s a bag of cleaning supplies rolling around in my trunk, and I have to carry the dishes upstairs because the box is heavier than I remember packing. By the time I’m back inside, I need a shower and a meal. I have no idea where the shower curtain is, so I settle for washing my face in the bathroom sink and eating crackers over the kitchen counter.

I find a yellow envelope in the box marked OFFICE. Inside are two spare pens, the little brass paperclip holder I bought during my first week at Price Development, and my old desk badge. I thought I’d handed the badge in with the rest of my things. I must’ve taken it off while I was packing.

I worked there for seven years. I know how to get a delayed permit back on track, which subcontractors answer their phones, and which project managers have to be asked questions twice before they’ll give the real answer. I know the job, and I was good at it. What I couldn’t do anymore was sit in a meeting with my father and pretend my leaving Caleb was something the company could resolve if everybody stayed calm.

I put the badge back in the envelope. Tomorrow I can email someone in HR about returning it. Tonight I shove it into the bottom of a drawer that doesn’t quite close, then take my laptop out of its case and check the job applications I sent yesterday. Two confirmations, one rejection, and a message from a recruiter asking to speak next week. I answer that one before I lose my nerve.

Mom has replied by the time I finish. Your father wants to know whether you need anything. Underneath, a second message arrives: We don’t have to agree with your decision to worry about you.

I type a response, delete it, and write another. I know you’re worried. I have what I need. I’ll call you tomorrow. It’s the closest I can get to kindness without inviting another discussion about moving home.

I spend the next hour wrestling the mattress onto its frame, fitting the drawers into the dresser, and putting together a lamp from three separate boxes. Cole’s door opens once while I’m carrying flattened cardboard to the recycling bin. I hear his boots on the landing but don’t turn around. I still have enough things to do that I don’t need to make another conversation out of walking past a neighbor.

By the time the bedroom looks halfway habitable, the building has gone quiet. I stack the last empty box beside the door, find a clean glass, and fill it at the kitchen sink. The water comes out cold, and for the first time today I get to stand in a room without somebody waiting for me to give them an answer.

I drink half the glass and turn off the faucet. Somewhere below the counter, water keeps dripping.