Ella must be in there.
For what feels like a dangerously long time I feel paralyzed in place, studying the imperfect walls and windows of a home that is mine, that will be mine today, tonight, tomorrow.
I can’t believe it.
I could kiss its rotting floor.
“Follow me,” Kenji says, his voice stirring me from my stupor. He leads me through the small house as if he’s walked these paths a hundred times—and I realize then that he has.
All these days he’s been working on this project. For Ella. For me.
I experience a sharp, distracting stab of guilt.
“Hello?” Kenji waves a hand in front of my face. “You want to see the kitchen, or no? I mean, I don’t really recommend it, because the kitchen probably needs the most work, but hey, it’s your house.”
“I don’t need to see the kitchen.”
“Great, then we’ll just get right to it. Winston first, then the backyard. Sound good? You never seem to have a problem working in a suit, so I don’t think it’ll be a problem for you today, either.”
I sigh. “I have no problem assisting with manual labor, Kishimoto. In fact, I would’ve been happy to do so earlier.”
“Great, well, that’s what we like to hear.” Kenji slaps me on the back, and I grit my teeth to keep from killing him.
“All right,” he says. “So, I’m not going to torture you with any more unknowns, because I don’t think you actually like surprises. I also think you’re probably the kind of guy who likes to be able to pre-visualize stuff—helps manage the anxiety of not knowing things—so I’m going to walk you through this step-by-step. Sound good?”
I come to a sudden stop, staring at Kenji like I’ve never seen him before. “What?”
“What do you mean, what?”
“How did you know that I don’t like surprises?”
“Bro, you’re forgetting that I watched you have an actual panic attack.” He taps his head. “I know some things, okay?”
I narrow my eyes at him.
“Okay, well”—he clears his throat—“there’s also this doctor we’re working with now—one of the ladies leading the exit evaluations for the asylum residents—and she’s, like, crazy smart. She’s got all kinds of interesting things to say about these patients, and everything they’ve been through. Anyway, you should talk to her. We had a patient who was cleared—healthy, fine, totally normal—to be returned to their relatives, but this dude couldn’t get on a plane without having a major panic attack. The doctor was explaining to Sam that, for some people, getting on a plane is terrifying because they have to be able to trust the pilot to control the plane—and some people just can’t trust like that. They can’t cede control. Anyway, it made me think of you.”
I deeply loathe this comparison, and I tell him as much. “I am perfectly capable of getting on planes,” I point out.
“Yeah, I know, but—you know what I mean, right? Generally?”
“No.”
Kenji sighs. “I’m just saying that I think it probably helps you to know exactly what’s going to happen next. You like being in control. You don’t like not knowing things. You probably like to imagine things in your head before they happen.”
“You had a single conversation with a doctor and now you think you’re capable of psychoanalyzing me?”
“I’m not—” Kenji throws up his arms. “You know what, whatever. Let’s go. Winston’s waiting.”
“Wait.”
Kenji looks up at me, irritation written all over his features. “What?”
“There might be a small grain of truth in what you said. A very, very small grain.”
“I knew it,” he says, pointing at me. “I told her, too, I was like, wow, you should really talk to this one guy we know, he could use a lot of help working through some—”
“You didn’t.” A muscle jumps in my jaw. “Tell me you didn’t actually say that to her.”
“I did too say that to her. She was a smart lady, and I think she might have some really interesting things to say to you. She was talking about some of these inmates and the problems they were facing and I was like, oh my God, you could be describing Warner right now.”
“I see,” I say, and nod. “I should just kill you here, shouldn’t I? In my own house. On my wedding day. It could be your gift to me.”
“This, right here!” He throws out his arms. “This is a perfect example! You don’t know how to problem solve without resorting to murder! How do you not see this as an issue?” He shakes his head. “I don’t know, man, you really might want to consider—”
I take a sharp breath, staring up at the ceiling. “For the love of God, Kishimoto. Where is Winston, and what does he want with me?”
“Did someone say my name?” Winston pops his head out of a door in the corridor ahead. “Come on in. I’m all ready for you.”
I shoot Kenji a scathing look before retreating down the hall, peering into the new room with some concern. It appears to be some kind of a bedroom, though it’s in desperate need of work. And paint. Winston has set up what appears to be a small command center—a dingy folding table displaying an artfully arranged selection of ties, bow ties, cuff links, and socks. I stare at it, beginning to understand, but I’m distracted by a strange, pungent odor that only seems to strengthen the longer I stand here.
“What on earth is that smell?” I ask, frowning at the old wood paneling.
“Yeah,” Winston says, shrugging. “We don’t know. We think maybe there’s a dead rat in the wall. Or maybe a couple of dead rats.”
“What?” I look at him sharply.
“Or!” Kenji says brightly. “Or, it’s just mold!”
“A delightful alternative.”
“Okay.” Winston claps his hands together, beaming. “We can talk about the rats tomorrow. You ready to see your suit?”
“What suit?”
“Your wedding suit,” Winston says, staring at me now with a strange expression on his face. “You didn’t really think you were getting married today in the clothes you’re wearing, did you?”
“Not they aren’t nice clothes,” Kenji adds.
“To be fair.” I meet Winston’s eyes. “I haven’t been able to predict a single thing that was going to happen to me today. How was I supposed to know that you’d managed to salvage my wedding suit from the wreckage? No one told me.”
“We didn’t salvage it from the wreckage,” Winston says, laughing. “I made you a new one.”
This leaves me briefly speechless. I stare at Winston, then Kenji. “You made me a new suit? How? Why? When?”
“What do you mean?” Winston is still smiling. “We couldn’t let you get married without a proper suit.”
“But how did you find the time? You must’ve—”
“Been up all night?” Brendan ducks his head into the room, then steps fully inside. “Finishing most of the work by hand? Yes, Winston was up all night on your behalf. Hardly slept at all. Which is why it wasn’t very nice of you to be so rude to him this morning.”
I glance from Brendan to Winston to Kenji.
I have no idea what to say, and I’m just thinking of how to respond when Adam and James show up at the door, two sets of knuckles knocking a rapid staccato on the frame.
“Hi!” James says, abandoning the door and his brother to invade my personal space. “Did they tell you I’m the only kid allowed at the wedding?”
“No.”
“Well, I am. I’m the only kid allowed at the wedding. My friends are super jealous right now because they’re all stuck in class.”
“And was there any particular reason,” I ask carefully, “why they made an exception for you?”
James rolls his eyes and lunges at me, hugging me right around the middle in a show of unprecedented self-assurance that shocks me, briefly, into paralysis.
“Congratulations,” he says against my sweater. “I’m really happy for you guys.”
I have to remind myself that James is not only— biologically—my brother, but also a child, and undeserving of rejection. I pat him on the head in a single, wooden movement that startles a laugh out of Kenji, a gasp from Winston, stunned silence from Brendan, and slack-jawed astonishment from Adam.
I clear my throat, disengaging from James as gently as I can.