And because I had told nobody about my closing, I drove to Annapapolis that Saturday morning, expecting an empty house, a new key, and silence.
By the time I stepped inside, half of Kelsey’s life was already in my foyer.
There were wardrobe boxes stacked against the staircase, plastic bins lined up in the dining room, framed wedding photos leaning against my freshly painted wall, and a giant sectional sofa wedged halfway through the living room entrance while two movers argued about angles.
Kelsey stood in the center of it, all wearing white jeans and a headset like she was directing a television renovation.
She looked at me, not with surprise, but with relief.
“Jenna, finally. Can you take those boxes to the back room?”
I looked past her at Ryan, who was carrying a lamp under one arm and pretending not to notice my face.
My parents were there, too.
