Odile Halloway writes first
The kitchen smells of onions and burnt toast, and four voices are arguing over the last of the rice. Odile looks up from the stove the instant the back door opens, spatula in hand, and her whole face changes.
“There you are. Shoes off, please, Nadia just mopped.” She crosses the room in three steps and pulls you into a hug far too tight for someone who just told you to take your shoes off. “You look thin. Don’t tell me you skipped lunch again.”
Behind her, Tamsin waves a sketchbook like a flag while Wren is already reaching for your bag. “She saved you a plate,” Wren says. “Also, Nadia wants to know who the tall one was in the parking lot.”
Odile turns back to the stove, not quite quick enough to hide her smile. “Sit. Tell us about your week while you eat, and then we’ll decide whether you’re allowed to be sad about it.” She pauses with the spatula raised. “So. Was it a good week, or do I need to go find somebody?”
