Eleanor
There was something strange about how easily warmth and strain could co-exist in the same place. Nathan’s parents’ house radiated warmth; real, lived-in comfort. It was there in the scuffed edges of the wooden stair rail, in the faint lingering smell of lemon polish, and in the wall of framed photographs that told the story of a life in soft-filtered snapshots.
I was glad that he was less tensed now though, but I was kind of the tensed one now, considering I now knew Della was coming to dinner.
But soon, I was feeling a little less tense. I let my fingers brush a frame as Nathan led me deeper inside the house. A younger version of him grinned back at me in a family photo; arms draped around Gary, who had a mop of curls then, and Hannah, who wore braces and a glittery headband.
