Grace Barron's voice was almost weightless, her gaze clear and warm. She stood there like a tree in early morning light—upright, grounded—doing nothing at all and somehow steadying the whole room.
For someone who'd been living here alone for days, nearly accustomed to the hollowness and the quiet, Oakley Ponciano found the sight a little unreal.
Convinced she must be dreaming, she pinched herself. Then, mischievous, she stepped forward and pinched Grace's arm.
Heat. Life. Real.
"You—" Oakley covered her mouth, laughter and disbelief spilling together. "You actually drove through the night to come back!"
Wasn't it supposed to be tomorrow? Why change the plan all of a sudden—because, earlier, she had casually sighed that she'd prepped a midnight snack?
"Mm." Grace held Oakley's eyes, the faintest smile softening her mouth. "I'm fairly good at acting on things. Once an idea lands, I have to follow it immediately or I feel…restless."
"I see that." Oakley thought for a beat, then couldn't help smiling; her eyes crinkled with it. "So, you wanted to eat the midnight snack with me that badly?"
"I did." Grace took one step closer, lashes lowered. "Why—may I not?"
"I never said you couldn't." Oakley clasped her hands behind her back, her gaze tracing from Grace's fingers curled around the suitcase handle up to her face. "But if you rushed like this, aren't you exhausted?"
If she had scheduled tomorrow, Oakley reasoned, it was only because today would be too tight, too tiring.
Grace shook her head. "I'll live. I'm not that fragile."
"Tch." Oakley gave her a frank once-over. "You'd better not be."
Lately, she'd been thinking about something with embarrassing seriousness: if Grace went ten years before her—eight, even—how on earth was she supposed to go on?
If she got used to sharing days with Grace, how would she adapt afterward—alone, or in some quiet retirement home? It would feel like falling from the sun into an unlit basement—no, from heaven into the pit.
Maybe, she thought suddenly, when the New Year came, she'd stop wishing for a hundred-year life. Live too long and you risk being bored to tears.
"That face," Grace murmured, eyes narrowing with the ease of someone who knew every sidestreet of Oakley's mind. "Are you thinking strange thoughts again?"
Whenever Oakley wore that look, nine times out of ten she had drifted into orbit. The woman had a gift for free association, for wandering.
Grace was used to it. She even liked it.
"Who, me?" Oakley snapped back to earth, hands flapping. "No, no. Absolutely not."
Grace dipped her chin. "So. What did you make for our midnight feast?"
"Ah." Oakley winced. "Since I thought you weren't coming back…about half an hour ago, it—"
Grace felt a small dread rise and finished for her, slow: "—passed away?"
"Not passed away. Devoured by you?" Grace amended dryly.
"Brilliant." Oakley gave her a thumbs-up.
"Great." Grace suddenly regretted giving half her pasta at dinner to Heaton Norris. She'd left room for later, and now later was a mirage. She should've eaten the whole bowl.
Seeing disappointment faintly cloud Grace's face, Oakley folded her arms. "Okay, okay—kidding!"
Grace's brows lifted. "Really?"
Oakley nodded briskly. "I'll head down first. You drop your bags, take a shower, and come join me. And hey—I found a wonderful bath oil. Add a few drops to your soak—it leaves you loose and comfortable all over. I decanted a bottle and left it in your bathroom. Use it!"
She said it all in one breath, then jogged down the stairs.
Grace watched her go, eyes following until Oakley's shadow slipped beyond the landing. Only then did she turn back down the hall, smiling to herself for no particular reason. Oakley had thought of everything—every small thing made ready.
Grace carried her case upstairs with a steady, unhurried stride, set it down, showered quickly. She would have liked to try the bath oil, but it was late, and she didn't want to disappear in steam while Oakley waited below.
She changed into home clothes and left the bedroom.
In the kitchen, a small bowl had already been brought to the table. Oakley sat beside it, watching a reality show on her tablet, pupils catching bits of neon and laughter.
Grace came closer. The bowl was filled to the brim: plump shrimp, winked-open sea snails, a choir of glossy clams and mussels. The little sea-things swam in a light brown dressing, flecked with cilantro, scallions, and pinprick red chilies, the whole picture bright and tempting.
"This is…" Grace leaned in. "Marinated little seafood?"
"Bingo." Oakley snapped her fingers.
Grace studied the box and the sheen and the generous portion. The container didn't look like takeout. The seafood looked too clean, too well-chosen. And the quantity—no shop would be that generous in this economy.
"You made this?" she asked.
"You can tell?" Oakley didn't pretend modesty. Her pride was as frank as her grin. "I followed a video online. I thought I'd mess it up, but it worked on the first try. Tastes good, too. Well? Am I wildly impressive or what?"
She'd eyed more complicated recipes, then chosen this for the first run. The end result surprised even her.
"Mhm." Grace's praise came easy. "Honestly, it looks better than store-bought. But you're usually a takeout loyalist. What possessed you to cook tonight?"
Oakley shot her a look. "Because I wanted to, okay?"She paused, the words itching to get out, then added, "That old man next door—he's insufferable. He spends all day bragging about his granddaughter's girlfriend."
"Huh?" Grace blinked. How did a neighbor bragging about his granddaughter's girlfriend end with Oakley in a mood?
Oakley continued, "He keeps saying no one is as blessed as his granddaughter. Says the girlfriend's gorgeous, comes from money, competent, sweet-tempered, and—of course—does everything, cooks like a dream, practically not human in her perfection."
She huffed. "Then he goes, only the lucky meet partners like that; the unlucky end up with loudmouths who only know how to talk and nothing else. Marriages like that won't last—give it time and one of them's bound to feel stifled."
"So," Grace said, smiling now, "you're afraid you 'can't do anything' and we'll fall apart?"
Oakley startled. "I—I'm saying I'm not helpless. I might look that way at the moment, but I'm quick on the uptake. I'll get there. I won't let you be the only useful person in this home. I won't let you feel trapped."
Grace couldn't help it; she laughed, quiet and warm. What exactly lived inside this woman's head? Whatever it was, she found it unbearably endearing.
Who lets a neighbor's gossip wind them up this far? Oakley, of course. Oakley would.
"Oakley," Grace said, her voice soft, calling her by name. She watched her, eyes full of unspoken things.
"What?" Oakley flicked a glance up, curious and a little lost.
"Nothing. Just…" Grace hesitated, as if choosing a stepping stone she'd never used. She lifted a hand—awkward, brave—held it out. "I want a hug."
The kitchen light was gentle, amber, making shadows slow down and breathe. Under that hush, faces looked more sculpted, more sincere; everything felt more deliberate.
Grace had never asked like this.
Oakley went still, surprised.
"Okay," she said at last. She crumpled the piece of cling film in her fingers and tossed it into the bin, then crossed the few feet between them and opened her arms.
Grace was slight, all angles and quiet strength. Holding her felt like holding a young tree—there was a firmness to it, a little edge—but Oakley didn't want to let go. Not yet.
They stood in silence, wrapped around each other, the only noise the happy clamor of the show on the tablet.
After a while, Grace spoke against Oakley's hair. "You don't need to think that far ahead. I won't feel trapped. If I ever do, it would only be because…"
"Because?" Oakley tipped her chin up, searching Grace's face.
Grace smiled, small and sure. "Because you felt this marriage wasn't making you happy."
Oakley laughed, wide, unable to rein it in. "God, that sounds perfect."
It did. It landed like a swallow at dusk, light and right on the mark. Sweetness rose in Oakley's chest like someone had stirred honey into her blood.
Grace knew she wasn't saying it to sweet-talk. It was simply the truth as she felt it. Somewhere along the way, "Make Oakley happy" had rearranged itself into a private mission statement. If Oakley was lit from within, Grace would be, too.
They sat and ate. The seafood was shockingly good—flavors deep, but not salty. The dressing turned out to be ideal with a tangle of konjac noodles, silk and bite and savor in each mouthful.
With the tablet drumming away nearby, Grace found herself glancing at the screen—the kind of bright, inventive dating show that made noise feel like company.
"Is this one new?" she asked.
Oakley perked up, happy to explain. "Yep. Travel plus dating. They fall in love while seeing the world. It's at the finale."
"Mm." Grace nodded. "Shows keep finding new ways to turn the heart into a stage."
"It's pretty romantic this season," Oakley admitted. "It even makes me want to travel."
Images sprang up—their trip last time, little scenes looping, refusing to fade.
Grace looked over then. Oakley was practically radiant, like she'd stepped into a snow globe of pink bubbles. She opened her mouth to ask when Grace might be free—to float the idea of a getaway—when Grace's phone began to ring.
Oakley closed her lips and waited.
She heard only fragments—Grace saying she was busy, that she couldn't make it—no details, no names.
When the call ended, Oakley asked, "Everything okay?"
"A friend," Grace set the phone aside. "She asked if I could go riding next Saturday. I told her I'm tied up."
Time was in short supply: some for work, some for home.
"I see." Oakley nodded, swallowing her question whole. If even a friend's invitation couldn't budge the schedule, then travel—well, asking would be asking the moon to come down to the porch.
They went on eating, watching.
Oakley had been half-watching until the finale began. Then she sat up straighter, hands fidgeting as if the outcome belonged to her.
"This one feels…serious," Grace observed, eyeing the elaborate opening.
"It's confession night." Oakley's voice was all nerves and sparkle. "God, I'm weirdly tense. What if my ship sinks?"
Grace didn't interrupt. She simply stayed with her, eyes moving back and forth from the screen.
Oakley's favorite couple—bookish boy, bright-eyed girl—didn't look like the kind who court disaster.
For the last date, they chose a glasshouse set on a field lush as a tropical garden. It was absurdly romantic.
In the end, the girl said yes. Outside the glass, the night cracked open—fireworks went up, bloomed, dissolved into color; the whole picture felt scripted by a benevolent universe.
Oakley's hand flew to her mouth.
A small girl at heart, Grace thought fondly. Give her a dreamy scene and she offers her whole attention, her whole chest.
Grace turned her head, study-soft, smiling.
After a moment, she said, "Oakley, let's take a trip. Soon. Do you have any free days coming up?"
"Wait—" Oakley blinked hard, the show's romance colliding with the room's. She stared at Grace. "A trip?"
"Yes." Grace smiled. "Don't you want to?"
"Who said I didn't?!" Oakley's eyes went wide, scandalized.
Then reality reared up. "But—didn't you just say you're booked solid?"
Grace lowered her gaze, then lifted it, measuring Oakley from head to toe like she was verifying a password. "Consider this: other people are other people. You are you."
"For you," she said, light as a promise, "I'm always free."