All to Blame

Day 1 – Saturday

Things at my house had gotten tense again—nothing new, just loud voices, long silences, and doors that didn’t close quietly. I called Ali late one night and asked if I could stay for a bit. She said yes without hesitation. I packed a bag the next day.

Ali was my closest friend in college. We could tell each other anything, and there was never any judgment or jealousy. We weren’t the same, exactly, but we fit in a way that made everything else feel less sharp.

Ali always went home for the summer. It made sense—her dad’s house was familiar, quiet, and there was a job waiting for her at the same café she’d worked at in high school. She liked the routine. I think she even liked the distance.

Her dad lived alone most of the year. She stayed with him in the summers, but the house still felt like his, not theirs. Her parents divorced our freshman year.

Ali met me at the car before I could even reach the door.

“You look good,” she said, smiling as she pulled me into a hug.

“You look like you’ve been breathing real air,” I said.

We stood there for a second longer than necessary. It wasn’t dramatic—just one of those quiet, anchoring hugs. We hadn’t seen each other in a month.

“How’s your dad?” she asked as we grabbed my bag.

“Still impossible,” I said.

She didn’t press. She never did. That’s what I loved about her.

“He’s just finishing up mowing,” she added as we stepped inside.

The house was low and shaded, full of ceiling fans and the smell of cut grass. Tile floors, sunbeams on carpet, old Florida quiet.

I looked through the window. Her dad was out there with the mower, shirt damp, moving like he had nowhere else to be.

I hadn’t expected to feel anything when I saw him, but I did.

I didn’t realize I was attracted to him at first—it came on like the heat, slow and subtle. He gave a quick introduction, said he’d be in soon, and pushed the mower toward the garage. I lingered a moment before Ali called me inside. I think he might’ve watched me walk.

He waved from across the yard, sweat shining on his forearms. His shirt clung to his back, silver at the temples, darker hair at the crown. When he looked up, his eyes were a warm kind of steel. I felt it like a pinch behind the ribs.

Ali showed me to the guest room with a quick wave and a grin. “Sheets are clean. Don’t judge the lamp.”

The room was small, quiet. A full-sized bed with a slightly sagging mattress, pale green walls, a single window dressed in thin white curtains that moved with the ceiling fan. It smelled faintly of cedar and something older—linen maybe, or dust.

A bookshelf sat in the corner with a half-full row of paperbacks—mysteries, mostly. There was a wooden dresser with a few scratches on the top, a mismatched reading lamp, and a chair in the corner—one leg shorter than the other—piled with folded blankets. Nothing about it had been dressed up for me. It was just the room that had always been there, waiting.

“Let me know if you need anything,” Ali said. “I’m gonna do some laundry and probably take a shower.”

“Thanks,” I said.

When she left, I sat on the edge of the bed for a minute, then stretched out fully. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Just to rest my eyes, maybe. The fan spun quietly overhead. The air was cool. The room held still.

I must’ve drifted. The next thing I heard was a soft knock and Ali’s voice at the door.

“Hey," she said. "I ordered pizza."

I couldn't find my voice for a moment.

"You okay in there?" Ali asked.

"Oh, yeah, fine... just fell asleep, that's all," I confessed.

We ate inside, around the kitchen table tucked near the window. The pizza was from a place Ali swore by—thin crust, a little burnt at the edges, just greasy enough to be good. It was simple, easy.

The kitchen was clean, the kind of clean that didn’t draw attention to itself. A few dishes drying by the sink, a fan ticking overhead, soft light coming through slatted blinds.

At one point I said something about the heat—that it felt like breathing through a damp towel. Eric looked up from his slice and said, “That’s why Florida keeps its secrets. Nobody sticks around long enough to uncover them.”

I laughed. It slipped out before I could help it. He didn’t grin, exactly, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of satisfaction, or recognition maybe.

Ali shook her head. “See? You got him started.”

Eric stood and took his plate to the sink. “I’ll let you two catch up,” he said, and disappeared down the hall, beer still in hand.

Ali and I stayed at the table a while longer, just talking. The knot in my chest, the one that had pulled tight the moment I left home, began to loosen, thread by thread.

Day 2 – Sunday

The kitchen was quiet when I padded in—soft light through the blinds, the hum of the fridge, the faint tick of the ceiling fan. I hadn’t meant to get up this early, but once I was awake, I couldn’t settle again.

I made coffee like I’d done it before, careful not to clatter anything, and sat at the table wearing what I slept in: a soft tank top—thin-strapped and a little tight across the chest—and cotton shorts, the kind with a wide waistband and legs that rode up a bit when I crossed them. I pulled my feet up under me and my skin stuck faintly to the chair. One knee pressed against the other. It was silent, but it didn't press. It just waited.

After a while, I heard footsteps. Not heavy, not rushed. Just steady.

Eric walked in wearing a t-shirt and soft, worn-in jeans. He paused when he saw me. His eyes moved over me slowly, like he was taking in a room that had been rearranged—familiar, but with something out of place. I just happened to be the unfamiliar part. I smiled at him. He nodded, a quiet kind of good morning, and moved easily around the kitchen.

He opened the fridge, paused for a moment, then pulled out a bag of bagels and a tub of cream cheese.

He took out two bagels and dropped them into the toaster.

“You eat?” he asked, already reaching for a second plate.

“Not yet,” I said.

When they were ready, he slid mine onto a plate, added cream cheese without asking, and set it in front of me like it was nothing.

We sat across from each other without speaking much, chewing, sipping, listening to the occasional creak of the house as it warmed with the sun. It wasn’t awkward. Just quiet.

Ali stumbled in eventually, tugging her hair into a ponytail with one hand, her phone in the other. She slowed when she saw us already at the table—already settled.

She stopped in the doorway, eyes flicking between us. Her smile was quick, maybe too quick. She gave me a look I couldn't quite read.

“You’re already up,” she said to me.

I shrugged. “I usually am.”

“Right. Forgot I’m the lazy one.”

She grabbed a mug and poured herself some coffee, then took a long sip before speaking again. “I gotta get moving. I’m probably already late.”

She moved around the kitchen in short bursts—keys, bag, a bagel wrapped in a napkin. She didn’t look at us again directly.

She was out the door five minutes later. The house stilled, like someone had turned the volume down. It felt bigger somehow. And quieter.

After Eric finished, he stood up, picked up his plate, and placed it in the sink. He disappeared down the hall without a word. I stayed at the table a little longer, tracing the rim of my coffee mug with one finger, listening to the tick of the fan overhead.

Eventually, I carried my plate to the sink and went to the bathroom. The mirror caught me in passing—eyes a little puffy, hair starting to frizz at the edges. I didn’t linger—just washed my hands, pressed cold water to my face, and moved on.

Back in the guest room, I sat in the wobbly chair by the shelf and picked up one of the old mysteries. It was a paperback with a handful of dog-eared corners among the yellowed pages. I tried to read, but my balance kept shifting. The chair stealing my focus each time it rocked.

I sat on the bed, reading the same paragraph three times before tossing the book down. I got up and wandered out the door and down the hallway.

I passed the office and saw Eric inside sitting behind a computer. He didn't notice me—not yet. I stepped inside.

He turned slightly, like he’d sensed me more than heard me, and looked over his shoulder. His eyes moved over me—not in a way I could name, just a moment too long, like he was remembering what it's like not to be alone. Then his gaze dropped back to the desk.

“Didn’t hear you come in,” he said.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I replied, though I hadn’t decided if that was true.

“You’re not. Just a little bit of work. Mind's not in it today. I'm distracted.” He left the thought unfinished.

I halved the distance between us. I didn't want to pry, so I changed the subject. “You don’t strike me as the mystery novel type.”

He looked at me, puzzled.

“In the guest room,” I said. “The shelf is filled with them.”

Eric gave a low, amused breath. “Ah. Yeah, those were hers.”

I blinked. “Ali’s?”

“No,” he said. “Her mother’s. She never came back for them. Been meaning to donate them.”

He said it plainly, like you’d talk about an umbrella or a chair that didn’t belong to you anymore—but I wasn’t sure what I heard beneath it. I couldn’t tell if he was still carrying something or just carrying the space it used to take up.

"Oh, sorry—I couldn't get past the first page."

"You've read more of them than me."

I smiled. “A room full of literal mysteries that you will never solve.”

He chuckled, low and real. “Something like that, or I could just flip to the end.”

That made me laugh, sharper than I meant to. He smiled back, and for a second the room felt easier. Lighter.

I left the office slowly, aware of each bare foot hitting the floor.

I didn’t go far—just stood in the hallway for a moment, not sure where I wanted to go. The guest room was behind me. Sunlight cut down the hallway in long, pale rectangles, and everything smelled faintly of citrus and dust.

I wandered back into the guest room. I hovered by the edge of the bed and picked up the paperback I'd left on the blanket. I ran my fingers around the corner before slotting it back on the shelf. I sat on the bed and felt the cool sheets on my thighs.

I couldn't be still. I picked up my phone out of habit before setting it down again.

So I drifted again—down the hall, through the kitchen, into the living room. I dropped onto the couch. The remote was on the coffee table. I picked it up and turned on the TV. The screen flashed too bright for the quiet of the house. I picked a reality show—something with beautiful couples in paradise. I curled my legs under me, and let the noise fill the space just so I wouldn't have to think.

I wasn’t sure how long I’d been sitting there. The show played on, some mix of bodies, drama, and music, none of it sticking. I shifted on the cushions. The air felt still.

The couch dipped. Eric sat at the other end, beer in hand—his presence making me aware of my thoughts again.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just watched the screen with a faint frown, like he was trying to understand how anyone found any of this entertaining.

Then: “Is this what passes for foreplay now?”

It caught me off guard. I snorted—more of a breath than a laugh. “It's worked on me a few times.”

As soon as I said it, I felt it land—between us, not quite a joke, but something else. I glanced at him. He didn’t look away, but he didn’t push it either. I think I saw him smile slightly. He took a sip of his beer, slow and quiet.

He shifted and set the bottle down. His hand brushed my thigh—barely. I didn't pull away. We stayed close.

I don't remember how long it took, but the space between us eroded.

Did I get closer to Eric? Did Eric get closer to me? Maybe it was the lopsided couch that pulled us together. But I do remember how his worn jeans felt against my thigh.

I looked up and saw Ali in the doorway. I had no idea how long she’d been standing there.

“Comfortable, I see,” Ali said as she crossed in front of the TV.

Suddenly, I felt too comfortable—like my clothes had shrunk in an instant.

“Very," Eric said. "Bri’s got me watching some high-class reality TV. Enlightening, to say the least.”

I was grateful Eric spoke up. I still don't know what I would’ve said. I scooted to the far end of the couch, put my feet on the floor, and pressed my thighs tightly together.