Nia pressed her fingers to her eyes. "I wanted to come home triumphant."
"You did," Denise said. "Triumph just doesn't always look like the brochure. Call me tomorrow after closing. And Nia—keep your name straight in your own head. You are Nia Ellison and you are still a Hayes when you need the steel. Both are true."
After the call, Nia showered in water hot enough to hurt lightly and changed into an old T-shirt of Marcus's that still lived in her drawer. She lay in their bed on her side, staring at the ceiling crack she had meant to have repaired for two years. From downstairs she heard Marcus moving boxes with a careful quiet. She hated him a little for the quiet. She loved him a little for it too. Sleep, when it came, was thin and full of doorways.
Morning arrived with the sound of a truck backing up and the beep of a vehicle designed to announce that change had a schedule. Nia woke alone in the bed and for a disorienting second thought she was still in the corporate apartment, late for a seminar on organizational influence. Then she saw the ceiling crack and remembered California, the boxes, the orange tree, the word foreclosure that no one had spoken aloud last night though it had sat in every corner like humidity.
She dressed in jeans and a soft sweater, leaving the cream blouse and heels in the closet like the costume of a different day. Downstairs, Marcus was already taping a box shut. Amara sat on the stairs eating cereal from a mug because most of the bowls were packed. Simone stood in the open garage doorway in work clothes—still stylish, still composed—holding a coffee tray with three cups as if caffeine could broker peace.
"Good morning," Simone said.