“Yeah, I guess it’s nice,” Nate shrugs, lifting our bags from the back of their family van. Nate’s father picked us up from the airport, which made it nice since there were three of us. Nate pulls Ty’s chair from the back and unfolds it next to the van; I watch as Ty lifts himself into it. The move takes seconds, and I wonder how long it took before it was easy.

“Your mom ordered pizza; I hope that’s okay,” Nate’s father says as he pushes Ty’s chair up the sidewalk to the ramp at the side of the porch. It’s the only time I’ve ever seen Ty not push himself, and when I realize I’m staring, I shake my head and look away quickly, hoping nobody noticed.

“It makes Dad feel good to do it sometimes,” Nate whispers into my ear. I just mouth oh and smile.

Pizza was the perfect idea after our trip, and maybe I was just starving, but the slices were gone from my plate in minutes. With dinner done, Nate pulls our bags to the bedrooms down the hall, and he gives me a quick tour of his family’s home. The living room and kitchen are one big room with a giant stoned fireplace and a TV mounted to the wall above it. The floors are long, wooden planks, and every wall is adorned with a collection of family photos or art. I notice a few paintings in the kitchen—signed by Nate’s mom, Cathy; I wonder if the others were done by friends.

“I like these,” I say, running my finger along the bottom of an ornately carved frame.

“Thank you,” Cathy says, coming up behind me, her hand on my shoulder in a way that feels nice—like acceptance. “I painted them in college.”

“What about these?” I ask, motioning to the ones I know are done by someone else.

“Those,” she starts, but pauses, her face sliding into a large smile. “Those are Ty’s.”

“You’re kidding!” I’m unable to mask my surprise. I get closer, and I can recognize the signature now, and I’m blown away. The paintings are oils. Abstracts, but full of color, the shapes almost making something recognizable, but always not quite—they remind me of dreams.

“He still paints sometimes. For fun,” she says, turning to look at Ty who is lost in some basketball game playing out on the TV while he talks with his dad. “My boys are full of surprises. I’m pretty sure I haven’t seen everything they’re capable of yet.” She watches him with pride in her eyes for a few seconds before taking a quick deep breath and turning her attention back to Nate and me. “Come on, let’s get you settled in your room.”

The Preeter home is one big circle, with a hallway that starts and ends in the family room, looping around to four bedrooms—all with views of the big yard and giant trees that surround the back of the house. My room is next to Nate’s, and I can’t help but wonder if he’ll sneak in to see me at night. I sit down on the full-size bed, and I can tell the lavender quilt was washed recently, the smell of fabric softener still strong in it.

“This is lovely,” I say, wondering where this sudden formal version of myself is coming from. Nate mocks me behind his mom, mouthing the word lovely and holding his hands up to his face with wide eyes. I glare at him, and he laughs silently.

“I’m glad you like it here,” she says, reaching around me and hugging me to her side, filling my body with even more warmth. I notice the stare she gives to Nate as she leaves, like they have a silent conversation about me, but I look away when Nate comes toward me.

“Oh, Mrs. Preeter, your home is simply divine. I must have your decorator,” Nate jokes, putting on his ridiculous, high-pitched girly voice.

“Oh my god! I do NOT sound like that,” I say, shoving him into my bed.

He raises his hand and holds his thumb to his index finger, measuring an inch. “You kinda do. But just a little.”

“Shut up. I want your mom to like me. And it’s really nice of your parents to have me here,” I say, actually feeling a little bad that he made fun of me. Nate can tell, and he grabs my hand, pulling me to his lap and hugging me tightly.

“I’m sorry. It was nice of you to gush. And for the record, my parents freaking love you. Just like I do,” he says, his smile warm against my cheek. Within seconds, he’s kissing me, and he keeps kissing me until we hear Ty clear his throat in the doorway.

“Yeah, you can’t do that shit at the Thanksgiving table. I’ll get sick,” he says, pushing into the room and lifting the corner of the blanket to his nose. “Damn. Mom actually washed your blanket. Did she wash yours?”

Nate shrugs, and Ty backs out of the room, heading to Nate’s. We follow him in there and he pulls Nate’s blanket to his nose then quickly tosses it back down. “All right, this is bullshit! Mom, what’s up with everyone getting dryer-sheet bed but me?” He’s down the hall and moaning to his mom within seconds.