THE HOUSE WE KEPT

CHAPTER 12: THE DOOR

LINA'S POV

The lock was on the table.

Brass. New. Heavy.

Mimi left it like a test.

“Install it,” she said. “Before one of you regrets it.”

I stared at it.

Andreo stared at me.

Neither of us touched it.

---

The house is finished.

Not perfect.

The pink wall has streaks.

The garden is crooked.

Hope the sapling leans left.

But it doesn’t leak.

It doesn’t rot.

And Dreo is still here.

He sleeps on the floor now.

Not the porch.

One foot away from me.

I count it every night.

---

“Door,” I said that morning.

He looked up from sanding.

“What?”

“It doesn’t lock,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

I waited.

“Do you want me to fix it?” he asked.

I should’ve said yes.

That’s what a normal person would say.

You’re a woman. You’re alone. You need a lock.

But I said, “No.”

His hand stopped moving.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because if you lock it,” I said, “I’ll think you’re leaving.”

He didn’t answer.

That was worse than a no.

---

We worked in silence.

He fixed the steps.

I painted the trim.

White.

Paint got on my arm.

He reached over.

Wiped it with his thumb.

I froze.

He froze too.

Then he pulled back.

Fast.

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay,” I said.

It wasn’t.

Because I didn’t want an apology.

I wanted him to stay.

---

Mimi’s lock sat on the table all day.

Like a third person in the house.

At dusk, I asked, “Did you—”

“No,” he said.

I exhaled.

I didn’t know I was holding my breath.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because you said no,” he said.

“That’s not a reason,” I said.

“It is,” he said. “For me.”

He sat on the floor.

The lock between us.

“If I put it on,” he said, “it means I’m staying.”

“If you don’t,” I said, “it means you can leave.”

He nodded.

Neither of us reached for it.

---

That night, it rained.

Soft.

I couldn’t sleep.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked from the floor.

“No.”

“Me neither.”

“Why?”

“Because of the lock,” he said.

“Me too,” I said.

We were quiet.

Then I said, “Tell me something you’ve never told anyone.”

He was quiet for a long time.

“I kept my dad’s hammer,” he said.

My chest hurt.

“I told people I burned all his tools,” he said. “I lied.”

“Why?”

“Because if I threw it away,” he said, “it meant I forgave him.”

“Are you ready?” I asked.

“I don’t know,” he said. “Are you ready to forgive yours?”

Mateo.

The text.

“I can’t.”

“No,” I said.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’re even.”

I laughed.

It hurt.

---

I told him about the text.

“I didn’t delete it,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because if I delete it,” I said, “it means it didn’t happen.”

He nodded.

“I have the hammer,” he said.

“You have the text,” I said.

We’re both haunted.

That’s why we fit.

---

The rain stopped.

I sat up.

Looked at the door.

Open.

Then at the lock.

On the floor.

“If you put it on,” I said, “I won’t ask you to leave.”

“If you don’t,” he said, “I won’t.”

I stood up.

His eyes followed me.

I walked to the door.

He probably thought I was going to close it.

Lock him out.

Tell him to go.

I didn’t.

I sat on the threshold.

One foot inside.

One foot outside.

“Come here,” I said.

He didn’t move.

“Please,” I said.

He stood up.

Slow.

Like the floor might break under him.

He stopped in the doorway.

With me.

---

“Why did you stay?” I asked.

“You asked me to,” he said.

“No,” I said. “The real reason.”

He looked at the yard.

At Hope.

At the garden.

“Because you didn’t look at me like I was my father,” he said.

My heart broke.

“How did he look at you?” I asked.

“Like I was going to leave,” he said. “So he left first.”

I reached out.

Didn’t touch.

“I’m not him,” I said.

“I know,” he said.

“Then stop acting like it,” I said.

He flinched.

“Sorry,” I said fast.

“No,” he said. “You’re right.”

He sat down.

Next to me.

One foot inside.

One foot outside.

Like me.

---

“I’m scared,” he said.

“Of what?”

“Of this,” he said. “Of you. Of staying and losing it.”

“Me too,” I said.

“What do we do?”

I looked at the lock.

“We don’t put it on,” I said.

He looked at me.

“Not yet,” I said. “We leave the door open.”

“That’s stupid,” he said. “Anyone can walk in.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you can.”

He stared.

“And you can walk out,” I said. “Anytime. But you have to choose to come back in.”

He didn’t speak.

I reached for the lock.

He didn’t stop me.

I picked it up.

Heavy.

I walked to the shelf.

By the mugs.

I set it down.

Then I came back.

Sat down.

---

“You didn’t lock it,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because I’m not staying because the door is locked,” I said. “I’m staying because you’re here.”

He breathed out.

Like he’d been drowning.

“Okay,” he said.

“Okay,” I said.

We sat there.

Threshold.

Door open.

---

Later, I lay down.

Head on his shoulder.

He went still.

I didn’t move.

His arm was under my neck.

Warm.

Solid.

“I’m not going anywhere,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Not tonight,” he added.

“I know,” I said.

“Not tomorrow either,” he said.

I squeezed his arm.

---

I slept on the floor that night.

Inside.

No mat between us.

No three feet.

No porch.

Just a blanket.

Just him breathing.

Just an open door.

In the morning, I woke up first.

He was still asleep.

Eyes closed.

Face softer without the guard.

I watched him.

He looked younger.

Less tired.

I got up.

Quiet.

Coffee.

Two mugs.

When he came in, I didn’t say anything.

“Morning,” he said.

“Morning,” I said.

I slid a mug to him.

Our fingers touched.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did I.

---

The door was still open.

---

*[End Chapter 12 ]*

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