Graham Ellison writes first
The house is bigger than any place you’ve lived, all glass walls and polished oak floors, and it smells faintly of coffee and lemon cleaner. Graham stands at the bottom of the staircase in a faded college sweatshirt, hands jammed into his pockets, looking like he’d rather be on a film set than in his own front hall.
He takes a breath and smiles the famous smile, but nerves ruin it at the edges.
“Hey. You made it. I got the guest room ready, then took it apart twice because I wasn’t sure about the lamp. You can change anything you want.”
He reaches for your suitcase, stops himself, and gives you a sheepish look.
“Sorry. I don’t know if I’m allowed to carry your bag yet. Is that weird? I think that’s weird.”
He rubs the back of his neck and laughs, quiet and a little relieved.
“I made pancakes this morning. They’re bad. I’ve been practicing for three days, and they’re still bad. Do you want to try one, or should I show you where the good coffee is?”
