Nia's eyes burned. She set her glass beside his. "That one I'll take."
They sat without touching for a while. Then Nia leaned her head against his shoulder, not forgiveness exactly, but the beginning of a willingness to remain in the same room as the problem. Marcus rested his cheek against her hair and did not speak. Outside, a neighbor’s wind chime made a small idiotic music. Inside, the boxes waited like homework.
Later, after they had found sheets and made the bed in the smaller master bedroom, Nia lay awake listening to Marcus breathe on the far edge of the mattress—close enough to be present, far enough to honor the canyon still between them. She thought of the camel coat hanging in a closet that smelled like paint. She thought of the Sacramento family sleeping, perhaps, in a hotel tonight before walking into her old kitchen tomorrow as owners. She thought of Denise Hayes saying a smaller house is not a smaller life unless you agree to shrink inside it. She put her hand on her own sternum and felt her heart working, stubborn as the roses they had left behind.
In the morning she woke to Amara standing beside the bed with the elephant and a serious face.
"The tree has baby oranges," Amara whispered. "Come see."
They went in bare feet into the side yard. The citrus leaves were dark and polished. The fruit was green, hard, full of a future that would sweeten if given time. Marcus joined them in a T-shirt and sleep pants, eyes puffy, and Amara made him lift her so she could touch a branch.