I shut the door slowly, as if closing it might reverse what had just happened. Vanessa’s suitcases stood in my living room like three sentries. She had already moved toward the sofa with a satisfied, casual stride, as if she were inspecting a hotel suite.
“Why didn’t you call me?” I asked, still trying to keep my voice level. “It’s eight in the morning.”
She dropped onto my gray sectional with a dramatic exhale, like she’d endured some ordeal getting here. She stretched her legs out, letting her heels bump against my coffee table. My coffee table. The one I’d refinished myself, sanding it down late at night in my tiny kitchen, staining it in careful strokes.
“Because,” she said, drawing the word out, “I knew you’d make it a whole thing.”
“It is a whole thing,” I said. My pulse thudded in my neck. “You can’t just show up and decide you live here.”
Vanessa tilted her head, eyes narrowing slightly like I’d said something amusing. “Why not? Mom and Dad own the place. It’s basically family property.”
That phrase hit something in me, sharp as a pin. Basically family property. As if the work I put into paying rent, paying utilities, maintaining the place, didn’t count.
“I rent it,” I said, slowly, letting each word land. “I have a lease. I pay for it.”
She rolled her eyes with a sound that was almost a laugh. “Yeah, at a massive discount. Must be nice.”
I stared at her. Behind her, my apartment looked the way it always did on Sunday mornings. Tidy. Calm. Sunlight coming in through the living room window, soft and pale. A plant on the sill reaching toward the light. The faint smell of lemon cleaner. It looked like a space that belonged to someone with discipline.
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