Fisher Grant—my ex turned accidental husband—is standing in my condo looking around and taking in every detail like maybe the fabric of the blanket strewn across the back of the couch might hold the answers he needs.
Clearing my throat, I shut the door behind me, and I’m immediately reminded how small this place really is.
Thank God we only have two weeks here before Noah and Sabrina’s wedding and it won’t be long after that until we’re all off to the Australian Open in Melbourne.
“So, this is my place,” I say, desperate to fill the silence.
He looks at me over his shoulder, his brows heavy over his eyes. “I liked your old place better.”
I let out a strangled sound. “Um … okay.”
“This place doesn’t seem like you at all. It’s so cold and dull. Where’s the color?” He gestures to the space. “The wallpaper and olive-green couch?”
I can picture the place he’s talking about so clearly in my mind but the person I was when I decorated that apartment is long gone.
“I grew up,” is all I say, stepping around him so I can make a glass of water.
“Growing up means erasing all color from your world?” He muses softly. “Interesting.”
“Do you want water?” I ask, desperate to change the subject.
“Sure.”
I hear him shuffle behind me and the counter stool pull away from the island.
My fingers tremble slightly as I stand on my tiptoes and grab two glasses from the cabinet. I take my time filling them with ice and water before I turn around and slide one over to Fisher. He watches me with a lazy smile and his head propped in his hand. His glasses are gone today and I really freaking miss them—not that I would ever tell him that.
“Thanks,” he says. “I think we should go to the hardware store tomorrow.”
I nearly choke on my sip of water. “What? Why?”
“Because this place isn’t you, Ebba.” He gestures lazily around us. “Add Homegoods to the list too. You need some wall art and some fucking knickknacks. Where is all yourstuff?”
I’m not a hoarder, but I do like my trinkets. Like the little figurines I used to have in my kitchen in my old place that were animals as food—my personal favorite being a watermelon cat. But after Fisher and I broke up, I couldn’t stand to look at all my things. Even things I’d gotten way before him had become tainted with memories. Like my Chicago “flick the bean” magnet that he’d plucked off my fridge and made a joke about. Fisher waseverywhereeven when he wasn’t.
Clearing my throat, I say, “That’s okay. Really.”
He tugs on the wavy strands of his hair. “You can’t like this, Ebba.”
Silence fills the space. He’s right. I don’t like the clinical white apartment, but it’s better than being surrounded by memories.
He pulls out his phone and begins typing rapidly—his fingers practically a blur.
“Who are you texting?” I ask, unable to keep the accusation from my tone. I wish I could shove the words back in my mouth and swallow them down.
His fingers freeze and he looks up slowly with a smirk that in equal parts makes me want to smack him and kiss him. I’m so fucked up when it comes to this man.
“Why? Jealous?”
“No,” I answer too quickly.
His smirk gets impossibly bigger. “I’m not texting anyone.” It’s on the very tip of my tongue to call him a liar, when he traces his fingers around the lip of the cup and says, “I’m making notes.”
“Notes?” I volley back in surprise.
“Mhm,” he hums, looking back down at his phone.
“For what?”