Grace wasn't wrong.
Though they had known each other barely a month, at yet—in the eyes of the law—they were already one family. Their marriage might not look like anyone else's, but what did it matter? Wasn't the point to stand side by side? If they married yet chose to live separately, how would that be any different from solitude?
Oakley Ponciano smiled faintly. "All right then. When would be good for you? I'll pack and move over."
What she wanted, more than anything, was quiet.
Grace thought for a moment. "Anytime that suits you. I'll be at work during the day, but you could still move in then. I'll give you a keycard for my front door and send you the passcode. That way, you won't have to worry about timing."
Oakley nodded. "That works."
That settled a knot she hadn't realized was cutting off her air. She could stop worrying about being tailed home. The moment she'd opened her door and found haters on the landing—faces like smudges, phone cameras lifted—her whole body had locked in fear. For a wild second she'd thought: so this is how I leave the world.
She'd run—fast enough that they missed her—and gone straight to building management to report it. Even so, the aftershock kept shivering through her.
And the thought of renting a new place, of hunting for it, moving into it—exhausted her. She'd been too drained lately to lift a finger.
That was why, she realized now, why Jane MacAdam had gotten under her skin. It wasn't about the girl. It was about the season she was in—everything off-balance, the floor uncertain, her sense of safety thin as paper. She might have married as the fortune-teller suggested, but worry still lived with her.
Worry that Grace would be the kind to playgirls. That she'd meet the world's bright distractions and reach. That they'd marry and then unspool.
The fear wasn't abstract. It came from old cuts. She'd been stabbed in the back by "friends" too many times, and one story had sunk deepest—sophomore year.
Back then she'd been inseparable with a girl named Lila Reed. Joined at the hip, people said, like twin sisters in the same pair of pants. Oakley had met Lila when she was already low—after a roommate she'd tended for weeks turned around and sank her teeth in. Oakley clung to Lila, gave and gave.
But it didn't last. Lila fell in love and began rearranging her universe around a boy. She stood Oakley up again and again. They'd be out, laughing, walking arm in arm; then his name would light her phone and she'd murmur apologies and vanish.
At first Oakley said nothing. She forced herself to be understanding. Everyone around her had been calling her self-centered, and the words had stuck like burrs. She fell into the trap of proving she wasn't—bending, smoothing, smiling until it hurt.
But Lila only grew less reliable. The more Oakley forgave, the less she seemed to count. Plans made, plans broken; everything rescheduled to suit a boy she didn't even like.
On Oakley's twentieth birthday, something in her finally snapped.
Lila had promised to go to the amusement park with her. So Oakley had spent the whole morning dressing carefully, makeup perfect, rehearsing poses for their photos together, saving collections of "best-friend selfies" to copy.
She was trying on hats—three of them, one after another—when the call came. "Sorry, Oakley… my boyfriend just showed up under my dorm with a surprise. I wasn't going to go, but he spent so much money and… I'd feel awful turning him down. I probably can't make it."
Oakley froze, hat in hand.
The cold that moved through her then was clean and final. Anger burned through her. For once, she didn't swallow it down. Her voice went cold. "Do as you please. As long as you're happy."
She tossed the phone aside, trembling.
Panic must have hit Lila after; she called and messaged in a flurry, demanding Oakley's "heartfelt" forgiveness. But the more Oakley read, the angrier she got. Apologies are cheap when you're already out the door. Why, exactly, was she obligated to swallow it because the other person said sorry?
It wasn't as if she had no one else. If Lila hadn't booked the day with her, Oakley would have said yes to her mother, who wanted to fly in to celebrate. Twenty is a marker. Her mother had wanted to be there.
That day, Oakley sank as low as she knew how. The world went gray at the edges. She drifted around campus, unwilling to go anywhere.
That's the cloud she carries still—the reason Grace's face near strangers brings a tremor of dread. If Grace became another Lila, anything could happen from there. Promises wouldn't mean much. The ground would tilt. She'd have to live braced for rupture.
And yet—her twentieth birthday wasn't entirely ruined. When she finally trudged back to the dorm, the supervisor stopped her and handed her a small, exquisite cake. The kindness was so simple it lifted something inside her. To this day, she doesn't know who sent it. No name. Only sweetness, and the feeling that someone saw her.
…
Now, with the move decided, Grace placed a keycard in Oakley's hand, then sent her the code and address. Even if Grace wasn't home, Oakley could let herself in.
As the apptalk ping landed, Oakley remembered the number she'd used for Grace was a new burner. "I'm dropping this account," she said. "Add my main?"
"Sure," Grace said, opening the scanner and holding her phone up.
Oakley flashed her QR. After the chime she tipped her head. "And you? Is that your burner?"
Grace shook her head. "No. That one's my everyday account"
"So few posts, then? I thought you just hid them."
She'd thought Grace's silence meant "throwaway." Grace looked down. "Most of the time it feels like… there's nothing worth posting."
"Fair." Oakley tapped to accept and kept walking beside her. "Maybe you're just too fulfilled. Not like me—always restless, always idle."
Grace tilted her head. "Not necessarily. Sharing or not has nothing to do with being busy. Sometimes the desire to share is a strength. You're restless because you're naturally outgoing, but your work keeps you isolated. Too much solitude… it makes you feel moldy inside."
Grown a little mold. Oakley almost laughed—because it was exactly right. A clean, apt phrase for the soft fuzz she felt on her days.
She folded her arm around her waist and went on, ""It's the freelancer tax. And most of my few friends are married now. Even if I can coax them out, we don't have much to say. The more we meet, the lonelier I feel. Half the things that light me up, they're not into anymore."
"Oh?" Grace angled toward her. "What things interest you?"
Oakley stared straight ahead. "Skydiving. Bungee jumping. That sort of thing. Everyone around me hears those words and goes straight to: "If I die, what happens to the kids?"
Back when none of them were married, they'd talk about weddings and babies with a curl of disdain. Some were fiercer than she was. Especially Amelia Hayes.
Oakley can still hear Amelia, dismissive and certain: "I don't get women who lose themselves after they marry. They orbit around husband and child like they don't own their own pulse. I won't be that stupid."
And yet after the wedding, Amelia's life thinned to husband and child, and she started nudging Oakley to marry, to have a baby "for fun." Every coffee date looped back to the same topics. After a while, exhaustion replaced patience.
Wind rose without warning.
Autumn pressed its palm against the treetops, tossing leaves into quick eddies. Hair lifted and tickled their cheeks; a small, clean chill seeped through fabric. Oakley tucked a strand behind her ear and lifted her chin to watch a golden leaf spin to the ground. A trace of helplessness uncurled in her chest.
Grace watched her. That precise face—almost "rendered," Oakley sometimes thought—had softened into something open. Grace's hands tightened once behind her back. "It's all right.
"All right?" Oakley swung her gaze over. "What is?"
She was neck-deep in a feeling she didn't have a name for, and Grace said it was all right?
Grace kept her hands clasped at her spine, lips slanting toward a smile as she walked. "I mean… you have a family now. You have me."
Oakley's brows eased, tipping upward.
Grace caught a leaf in her palm, admiring its golden veins, slotting it gently above Oakley's ear. She met her eyes—clear, wet, dark—as if making a promise in a chapel.
"I'm your family. Your friend. Whatever you want to do—tell me."
She let the moment breathe, then added, simple as a vow, "If I'm free, I'll go with you."
A small, decisive shift went through Oakley's heart. Then her mouth. The glossed curve of it cinched into a smile. "All right. Remember, you said it."
Grace drew out her phone and steered them forward. "Come, let's eat."
"Wait—where are we going?" Oakley blinked—only now realizing she hadn't asked
Grace unlocked an app and held the screen toward her: a listing for a new hotpot place. "Here."
Oakley's eyes lit up. "No way! I was just planning to try that place."
"I know," Grace replied easily, tucking the phone away. "You wrote it in your post this morning."
Oakley's exact words had been: "Heard Joyworld Hotpot just opened in Skylark. I'm tempted. Anyone been? If it's good, I'm going."
Oakley stared, lips parting in surprise. Then laughter spilled out, unrestrained.
"Perfect. Let's go then."