WHAT^ WHO> HOW^ WHEN
1291 Words
The next morning, Eliot awoke to the sound of the vacuum. More accurately, the sound of Winston, the noble Roomba, throwing itself repeatedly against his bedroom door.
He groaned, rolled over, and pulled a pillow over his head.
Whomp. Whomp. Whomp.
“Winston, buddy, stop trying to break in,” he muttered. But the Roomba was unbothered. Maybe even determined.
He finally sat up, hair a total wreck, and shuffled to the door. He opened it just in time for Winston to zoom between his legs like a robotic torpedo and begin vacuuming a perfectly clean carpet.
“Why do I feel like I’m the guest and Winston’s the homeowner?” Eliot asked the machine, then closed the door behind him.
Downstairs, Vivian was in the kitchen again, this time wearing yoga pants and a fitted T-shirt that read Namast’ay In Bed. She was pouring coffee, humming something that sounded suspiciously like a boyband ballad.
She turned when she saw him. “Morning, sunshine.”
He blinked. “Are you always… this chipper before 9 a.m.?”
“Not always. But coffee helps. Also, the yoga instructor I hate said I needed to ‘embrace morning light.’ So here I am, fake embracing it.”
Eliot poured himself a mug and leaned against the fridge. “Where’s Dad?”
“Already gone. Flight to Tokyo. He kissed me on the forehead, muttered something about conferences and carbon footprints, and vanished.”
“Wow. You two have such... poetic goodbyes.”
Vivian smiled faintly but didn’t reply.
He sipped his coffee and studied her. She really didn’t look like someone who should be married to his father. It wasn’t just her looks—though she was undeniably attractive—it was her energy. Playful. Warm. Slightly chaotic in a way that felt familiar.
Too familiar.
“You don’t work?” he asked suddenly.
“I do,” she said, walking past him toward the living room. “But not in the traditional 9-to-5 sense. I freelance—interior design mostly. Sometimes I teach pottery. And once I got paid to photograph a llama wedding.”
He nearly choked. “Llama wedding?!”
“Two llamas. White veil, tiny tux. It was disturbingly wholesome.”
“I don’t even know where to start unpacking that.”
She flopped onto the couch and pulled a throw blanket over her legs. “Don’t. Let the mystery live.”
He followed her into the room, coffee in hand. “So… real talk. You married my dad because…?”
Vivian tilted her head. “Because he was kind to me. And I needed stability. It wasn’t some whirlwind love story. It was slow. Sensible. Maybe even a little lonely.”
Eliot blinked. “That’s… incredibly honest.”
She shrugged. “I’m not good at lying. Unless it’s about how many cookies I eat in one sitting.”
“So you’re saying… it’s not true love?”
Vivian looked at him for a long moment. Then said softly, “Sometimes love doesn’t show up the way you think it will.”
He nodded, more solemn than he expected. “Fair.”
There was a long pause.
Then she said, “Wanna help me water the plants?”
---
They ended up outside, barefoot on the back patio, using a plastic watering can shaped like a snail. His dad’s backyard—once a tragic collection of patchy lawn and dead bushes—was now a lush mini jungle of ferns, flowers, and herbs.
Vivian handed him the snail. “Be gentle with Gerald. He’s sensitive.”
He looked at the can, then at her. “You named the watering can?”
“Gerald and I go way back.”
“You’re a chaotic woman.”
She curtsied. “Thank you.”
They worked side-by-side, laughing about nothing, pouring water into pots and debating whether mint was the devil’s herb or nature’s breath freshener.
Eliot was halfway through pouring when he misjudged the angle, dropped Gerald, and splashed mud all over his own legs.
Vivian burst out laughing. “You really are as clumsy as Greg said.”
“Oh, fantastic. You’ve had pre-warning.”
“He said you once dislocated your shoulder trying to take off a hoodie.”
“That was one time!”
She was still giggling when he started flicking droplets of muddy water at her. She squealed, dodged, and grabbed the hose.
“Oh no. Don’t you dare.”
She turned the water on with a mischievous glint.
“Vivian. Don’t—”
Too late.
The stream hit his chest and he yelped. “Okay! Okay! Truce!”
She laughed and lowered the hose, but not before his shirt was soaked and clinging to his torso.
She glanced down at him, her smile faltering just slightly.
“You should… uh… go dry off.”
Something was in her voice. Something new.
He looked at her—really looked at her. Her hair was loose now, damp from the water fight. Sunlight caught in her eyelashes. There was a smudge of dirt on her cheek.
She looked like a dream. Or a mistake waiting to happen.
“Yeah,” he said, backing toward the door. “I should… probably do that.”
He tripped over Gerald.
Again.
---
After a hot shower and a change of clothes, Eliot sat on his bed, scrolling through job listings on his phone and wondering what he was even doing with his life. Every job seemed worse than the last.
“Must be proficient in Excel and not allergic to printer toner.”
“Must be able to carry 50 lbs of meat.”
“Must love children. Like, really love children.”
He groaned. “I can’t even carry my dignity.”
There was a knock at his door.
“Yeah?”
Vivian peeked in. “You hungry?”
He blinked. “You’re cooking again?”
“Leftovers. But I made fresh garlic bread.”
“…I’m in love.”
“Slow down, Romeo.” She winked. “It’s just carbs.”
He followed her downstairs, once again amazed at how quickly she’d slipped into his daily rhythm. Or maybe he was slipping into hers.
Dinner was more casual this time—sitting on the floor with plates balanced on couch cushions, a ridiculous rom-com playing on mute in the background.
“So what’s the plan?” she asked between bites.
“For what?”
“Your life.”
He snorted. “Oh, that. Yeah. I’m still taking suggestions. I was thinking astronaut, but I get motion sick in elevators.”
Vivian smiled but didn’t push. Instead, she poured him another glass of wine and changed the subject to celebrity scandals and the weirdest commercials she’d ever seen in Japan.
Somewhere between laughter and garlic bread, Eliot found himself watching her again.
Noticing how her mouth curved when she laughed. How her eyes lingered a second too long on his. How her leg occasionally brushed against his when she shifted positions.
He wasn’t imagining it.
There was something there.
She stood to collect the plates. “I should get ready for bed. Early pottery session tomorrow.”
“Right.”
She paused at the foot of the stairs, her hand on the banister.
“You’re easy to be around,” she said quietly.
Eliot looked up. “That’s not something people usually say about me.”
“Well,” she said, “people are dumb.”
Then she turned and disappeared up the stairs.
He sat in silence for a long time.
The rom-com on the TV was now showing two characters in a passionate kiss, slow-motion and dramatic.
Eliot looked away.
And smiled.
---
End of Chapter 2
- Writer
