Worst sleep ever. I roll over, look at the clock, and groan. 9:30 am. I should be well rested, but Ive tossed and turned the whole night, thoughts of Aaron waking me and then twisting back into my dreams, concocting all kinds of scenarios.

I sit up suddenly and find myself restrained by some seriously tucked in bed sheets. Only one person tucks sheets that tight—military grade tight. Aaron. Aaron put me here sometime during the night. Again.

A brief wave of happiness rolls through me. He came back. Then I remember The Talk that looms before me like a black cloud on the horizon and I want to run in the other direction. Not going to happen, considering hes probably in the next room.

Pushing off the covers, I discover that Im still dressed in my sweater and jeans. I dont dare look in the mirror. If I make it to the bathroom undetected Ill survive. I need to look fresh before my talk with Aaron. Thats the plan. Ten seconds later that plan has been thwarted. Stepping out of my bedroom, Aaron looks up at me from the sofa. He sips a takeaway coffee and gives me a grim smile that sets my heart into panic mode.

I wave. Hi.

With an unenthusiastic wave from Aaron, I close the distance, sitting in my spot. He nods to the other takeaway cup on the coffee table. I clasp it tightly, hanging onto its warmth, as if a cappuccino was a form of liquid courage.

How are you? he asks.

I shrug and inspect my coffee lid. Its black. No surprise there. I look at it nevertheless.

I ran into your friends Quinn and Penny last night, he says.

The Black Rose?

How did you guess?

We go there every Wednesday night after work. I know some of the Celtic bands. I glance across to him. Sometimes I play with them.

Guitar?

I shake my head. Violin.

Ill have to remember that, he says, his eyes brightening. I can almost see him filing it away for a future song. He sips his coffee. Quinn and Penny were worried about you, given what happened at the café yesterday.

Nathaniel. If my mind wasnt confused enough, Aaron has to go and throw Nathaniel into the mix. Right now I dont care about the man on the bridge, or whether I visit some pub around the corner. I want to know what Aaron is thinking about us. I dont want to talk about Nathaniel.

Okay. Aaron holds up his hands in surrender, then relaxes back in the chair. His fingers drum his knee. I heard you have the day off.

Yep. Great. Now that he knows my friends he has inside information.

If you dont have plans, Id like to take you somewhere.

Where?

Ill explain on the way. Lets go. Hes out of his chair the next second, flipping his keys as he waits for me to follow.

Oh, fine. I slam my empty coffee half-heartedly on the table, then stumble up from the sofa, wishing Id made it to the shower.

Ten minutes later we are in the car after making a pit-stop at work. Aaron and Quinn, it appears, had been making prior breakfast arrangements last night. It seems Quinn knows more about where Im going than I do. He and Penny even gave me encouraging smiles as they passed me two hot paper bags of food and said goodbye. Those same papers bags are now scorching heat through my jeans. I might be a nervous wreck, having no idea what Aaron has in store, but that doesnt stop the savory smell of Quinns cooking from torturing me.

Rich houses and private schools pass us by, along with boutique shops that have been revamped. A little way up, a tram dings and a stop signs pokes out from the tram. Thats when it occurs to me that we are driving away from the city, towards Melbournes inner east. We stop for the tram. Aarons fingers drum the steering wheel for a good minute. Ive arranged an appointment with a real estate agent.

Youre moving out?

The tram dings and his focus is set on the traffic. Its not what you think. Not exactly. No offence, but your house is too small for the both of us, so I looked up some real estate sites.

I see.

The rentals were no better than where we are now.

Thanks. I give a half-hearted laugh, the streets of Richmond flying by as we follow the tram tracks down Victoria Parade.

Last night I came across a house. I bought it this morning.

You bought a house? That was fast.

He shrugs. But his gaze is uncertain. Id like you to check it out with me.

You havent seen it? What if hes going through a mid-life crisis and Ive been too blind to notice? No, this is his way of dealing with his brother; a turning point, a re-evaluation. I need to support this, even if it kills me. So, good house, then?

He smiles wistfully. I cant think of one better.

Oh?

It was my familys house.

Wow. I was not expecting that at all. At least he hasnt gone mad.

Several turns later and Im eating Quinns steak sandwich creation in a parked car, trying not to drip mushroom sauce everywhere. Aaron seems to be suffering the same dilemma as he grunts repeatedly and readjusts the steak, salad and bread, licking gravy from his fingers.

Were parked in the heart of Canterbury, one of the wealthiest suburbs in inner Melbourne. The street is bridged with elm and oak trees and beautiful gardens everywhere. Cars line the street. Wed been lucky to snare the last car spot outside a grand house of red brick veneer and stained-glass windows full of flowers. Vines creep lovingly over the eaves and down a trellis at the end of a porch. Beyond the wrought iron fence is a garden full of enchantments: a hand painted birdhouse in white and blue filigree, a ceramic bird bath on a pillar, ornaments and chimes dangling from oak and magnolia trees. A cherry blossom hangs starkly amongst rose bushes and topiary. It all seems far too sweet and sparkly for its new owner, one Aaron Randall, and I wonder if this garden is due to its current owners or his mother had some influence when they lived here.

He reaches into the backseat and retrieves a brand new hammer, complete with a receipt taped to its handle.

Do you mind putting this in your handbag? I must look at him strangely, because he says, Its not a weapon. I just need it for one of the rooms.

I nod, a little disheartened that he had to clarify it isnt a weapon, that he assumed my associations with him are always linked to violence. Maybe he thinks Im damaged by Jeremy and he believes I need constant reassurance. Maybe I do.

I lift the flap of my handbag and wedge the hammer next to my purse. When I close the flap the hammers handle juts out of the side.

10:30 hits and we are walking through the gate when Aaron takes my arm.

Evangeline, this is going to sound forward. I frown, but he continues, I know you have your own place, and thats fine, but considering that we were intending to be housemates and... He smiles tightly. I thought that you might like to move in here. Your own room, of course.

You dont have to feel responsible for me, Aaron. Ive managed perfectly well on my own for the past seven years.

Im not saying that you havent. I know I said I wouldnt shift out unless you asked me to, and when I started looking at houses Id intended on us choosing one together, but when I saw this place for sale I couldnt let it go.

Because of Damien. I should have realized sooner. Now I do feel heartless. Hes trying to find a way to be close to his brother and Im making it all about me. Hes asked me to move in with him, and not just any house but a house that is as sentimental as they come. I should feel privileged.

Weird that weve known each other less than a week and Im thinking about living with him for a second time. Although, this isnt much different from posting an ad for a housemate—theyd be complete strangers, too. At least with Aaron I saw enough of his character and integrity at the hospital, which is more than Id get while interviewing a potential housemate through a wanted ad. And his house looks far superior to the shoddy house were living in now. More importantly, I like having him around.

How much will my rent be, then?

Aaron laughs. That would be zero.

Oh no, you dont, I say, pointing at his chest. Im paying rent, or Im not moving at all.

He gives me a dark look. Evangeline, I bought this without consulting you. I dont expect you to pay for something you never asked for. Forget the rent. Id like you here.

I glare up at him, deciding whether to pursue the rent matter any further. I put aside the issue and go with something easier, If you dont mind me asking, how old were you when you moved in here?

He looks over the garden, shielding his eyes from the sun. I was thirteen. Damien was eleven. We both attended a grammar school not far from here. Then when I turned eighteen we sold up and returned home to London.

Private school, boy. I should have known. I smile, trying my best not to ask about Damien. He looks back at me, and seeing even the smallest of smiles makes me happy. I havent screwed this up. Yet.

He brushes his hand over a lavender bush, picks a bunch of purple stems and smells them as if hes inspecting one of his purchases. I realize Ive been staring at him the whole time, but its hard not to when he lifts my hand and gently lays the lavender in my palm, then closes my fingers over it, keeping his hand there. This could be yours, he says, nodding at the garden, the house, and at the lavender in our hands. All you have to do is say yes.

Yes. I laugh breathily, throwing up my free hand in a flighty wave. But Im paying rent.

Fine, he says, sounding composed and irritating me no end.

Having his answer, he wastes no time in leading me to the front door, where we are promptly invited in by the real estate agent Lauren Jefferies and the current owners, the conservative Lambert family. Im relieved that no one recognizes us.

As soon as weve had a quick tour of the house, Aaron insists on signing the paperwork. Lauren seems more than delighted when he passes the bank cheque into her hands. Im even asked to sign several documents. Something about needing another witness to the sale or something. I never get a chance to read it properly, I just sign above my already printed name: Evangeline Jayne Lockhart. After my signatures, the transaction happens quickly. The real estate lady scans and signs the documents, organizing them into folders.

Leaning against the kitchen pantry, Aaron and I watch the Lamberts two-year-old son run laps around the house. As they explain that their eldest two boys are in school today, Aarons hand tenses in mine. His gaze becomes unfocused as they point to a school photo of the young teens on the fridge. I want to rush him from the room and forget that we ever came here. But when they ask Aaron and me if we have kids of our own, I freeze. Aaron is still in some kind of fog and hasnt registered the last fragments of conversation, so I have no choice but to answer, Ah, no. We—

We havent got that far yet, Aaron cuts in, hugging me to him.

He seems completely relaxed by the whole conversation, then manages to sneak a smile my way, confounding me further. Hes enjoying this lie far too much, but I will go along with his lie. As crazy as it is, he needs this.

Not for the first time since we arrived, I stare out through the kitchen windows, absorbing the in-ground swimming pool and the enchanted gardens beyond, a large oak shading it all. To the right of the pool, the master bedroom extends with a line of white French doors and windows and white curtains fluttering inside—this is the room Aaron has already deemed as mine when wed taken a quick tour. It is undoubtedly the most beautiful room in the house, but supposedly too feminine and airy for his tastes. This had to be a tactical move on his behalf. He had to know Id fall in love with the room and, honestly, if I could move in here today I would.

Im sure youll both be very happy here, Mrs. Lambert says. I know its only a house, but its nice to know were leaving it in the hands of a young couple who will make this place a home.

I squeeze Aarons waist and we both choose that moment to exchange looks, mine shy and Aarons full of certainty. Kill me now, I actually giggle as Aaron kisses me lightly on the lips—a show for the good people needing reassurance for their beloved home.

Smiling, Mrs. Lambert gives a tiny clap as she leads us from the rear of the house and under an archway, steering us into the lounge room. She is the epitome of the perfect hostess, with biscuits and slices already laid upon the coffee table. Mr. Lambert keeps to the background, all too happy for his wife to entertain. Lauren has hardly said a word now that the transaction is complete—Mrs. Lambert is closing the deal perfectly well on her own.

I release Aarons hand and move to the tall bay window that looks over the front garden. The window is delicate in every detail, with an overhang of scalloped curtains in heavy cream satin and tasseled drapes on either side, and cloth as fine as gossamer. Sunlight streams over the dark polished floorboards and a white grand piano, and I imagine many hours passing me by as I sit at that piano and play.

Aaron walks past the piano and twinkles several keys, bending a fraction as he listens to its tuning. He frowns. Its way out of tune. Much like my neglected piano back home. He indicates that I should test out the keys for myself, but I shake my head. He thinks he can get me to play piano that easily! Not a chance.

We sit down in the brocade armchairs, sip our tea, and listen to the Lamberts love story with this house. We discover that theyve been the sole owners since Aarons family up and left for London. I can tell the news is exactly what Aaron wants to hear. Theres a light in his eyes as he explains that he lived here as a teenager. They are instantly overjoyed, Mrs. Lambert especially. He recalls how he and his brother had the last two rooms at the end of the hallway. His voice has a rasp to it now, and I hear it more as he says, He died last week.

Everyone stares at him, wide-eyed, all but the two-year-old ploughing into the choc-chip cookies on the table.

Mrs. Lambert gulps hard on her tea. Im very sorry. She looks ready to cry, as does Lauren. Great, I have tears in my eyes. My hand instantly lifts to Aarons back and he stills. I leave it there, but dont even think about rubbing it comfortingly as hed done when Id been discussing Jeremy.

I see why buying this house means so much to you, says Mr. Lambert.

Im grateful that no one asked how Damien died, because Im sure from their expressions they were tempted to ask. Its a natural follow-up question, one to show true concern. Thankfully, Mr. Lambert knew better in this case.

That explains why you were willing to pay twice the market price to take it off auction, says Lauren, finally contributing to the conversation now that moneys involved.

Twice the market price! Thats robbery! The poor guy has lost his brother. They know this, and yet theyre making him pay twice the price so he can have his old home back. Its unjust. Cruel.

What was the market price, originally, if you dont mind me asking? I say.

Eve. Aaron squeezes my hand, as if thats enough to stop me. Its fine.

No, Id like to know. Twice of whatever the asking price is, Im imagining thats quite a bit. Surely they could be a bit more considerate given you were the previous owner and all

He buries his head in his hands, and Im not sure if hes become exasperated by me or by talk of his brother. And Im not helping. I should stop talking now. I sip my tea and admire the dainty floral tea cup, enjoying the fact that it has no sentimental value to me. I picture the Mozart mug and decide that Aaron and I really need to go on a shopping spree for the new house. The first thing were going to buy is a new set of porcelain mugs.

Mr. and Mrs. Lambert exchange a guilty look.

Lauren looks at her hands and excuses herself to the bathroom.

I sip my tea.

Aaron stands and places his cup on the table, then moves it quickly as the little boy, Ryan, grabs for it. He crouches down. Youre a fast one, arent you? He smiles, placing his large hand on the table and letting Ryan slap the back of it. Aaron lightly places his other hand on top and there begins a game of whose hand is faster as the tower of hands climbs higher. The little boy wins, or more to the point Aaron lets him.

I cant help but smile, but its not with happiness. I like watching Aaron like this, gentle, childlike. He likes children, which I also like. But even this childs happiness, a stranger, is more important than his own. I think hes the most selfless person Ive ever met, and I realize thats why Im so angry about this house. If they knew Aaron they would never have doubled the price. No wonder theyve been so hospitable with their cakes and cookies and cups of tea. Its nothing but a token when theyre probably gaining millions in this one transaction. And how Aaron can afford a multi-million-dollar house, I have no idea.

Aaron stands once more, and this time he looks to Mr. Lambert. I have two more propositions to make.

You do? Mr. Lambert adjusts his glasses and sits down, almost missing the chair.

Actually, one moment, he says, holding up his hand. Aaron turns and bends down to me, his eyes serious as they search mine. Do you like it here—the house?

The house, yes, I whisper, nodding. The people, Im not decided on. Fortunately, they dont come with the end package.

He smiles a fraction. This room and the furniture?

Of course. Who wouldnt like this? I whisper, wondering if he wants the name of their decorator.

He nods, seemingly satisfied with my answers, then turns to Mr. Lambert. Would you be willing to part with the furniture in this room for a small price?

Mr. Lambert rubs his greying hair and stammers, We We werent intending to. But He looks to his wife, who shrugs, still looking worried since Aarons revelation.

Name your price.

Name your price! Im ready to pull Aaron out of the room and ask him what on Earth hes thinking. Theyve already charged him double. They should throw this stuff in for free!

The Steinway is worth ninety thousand alone, Mr. Lambert says, nodding to the beast of a piano.

Fine, Aaron says. Two-hundred K for the lot. The piano, the paintings, dinnerware, cabinets, dining table, and drapery. Everything in this room as it is now. Thats my final offer.

Mr. Lamberts mouth drops open, then he goes to shake Aarons hand. You have—

Hm-hm. Mrs. Lambert pulls her husband by the arm. A word, Douglas. She leads him through the rear archway and into the kitchen. The little boy runs after his parents.

As we hear them arguing, Aaron and I share an awkward smile.

Looks like Ive caused a bit of a stir, he says. Somehow, he seems to be enjoying that fact, and I can kind of understand why. Im still angry with the couple who have taken all of his money. They deserve a little unrest. You dont seem to mind?

I shrug innocently.

He flops back into the white leather sofa and relaxes properly for the first time all day. He pulls me back by the waist, and as I rest my head back against the cushy leather he kisses the side of my temple. I glance over at him, eyes narrowed, wondering what hes up to, how he can kiss me so easily given last night. We still havent had The Talk. Not that I really care. If I could, Id like to hold on to him as long as possible.

So, can you see us here? he asks.

Hm? I glance around at the lavish furnishings and try to fit myself into them. I shrug nonchalantly. Yeah, its not so bad. Its not my house, but you know Itll do.

He gives a laugh-grunt. I was thinking of converting the study into a studio.

That would be very cool.

My thoughts exactly.

And my guitar will go here, I say, patting the front left side of the sofa.

Youre a creature of habit, arent you?

Cmon. Youre not telling me that you arent going to place your guitar in the same spot over on your side?

He shrugs and smiles. You know me too well.

Weirdly, I feel that I do. I look across at him and sense that he agrees with me. We are in tune with each other in so many ways that its kind of spooky. Although, I could also say that I dont know you nearly enough.

To be expected, considering that we didnt know each other a week ago. Although, it does feel like longer.

In a good way?

Yes.

I laugh once, wishing we had known each other longer.

Mr. and Mrs. Lambert return from the kitchen and she gives her husband a nasty glare. He clears his throat. After further discussion, we have decided to give you the entire rooms furnishings as part of the settlement—no extra charge. Lauren is making up the paperwork as we speak.

Thank you, Aaron says, shaking Mr. Lamberts hand.

Now, what was that other thing you wanted? Mr. Lambert enquires.

Aarons demeanor changes instantly. He is tense, his face unreadable. He takes a moment to speak. When I was living here my brother and I hid a time capsule in the wall between our bedrooms. Its one of the main reasons I bought this place. Just to bang a hole in the wall. He laughs oddly. I was hoping to retrieve it today—with your permission, of course.

Hearing the struggle in Aarons voice, I now understand why Aaron wanted me here, not only for a house inspection, but for this, too. This moment is possibly too big to do alone.

I have no problem with it, says Mrs. Lambert. Do you? she asks her husband.

He looks torn at first, but then we are being lead through the lounge room and under another archway that leads to the front entrance. We diverge down a hallway along the side of the house, passing a large study before we stop at the first of two bedrooms.

Aaron turns to the Lamberts. Do you mind if I do this alone?

Sure, they say, leaving quietly.

Feeling out of place, as if Im trespassing, I begin to follow them back down the hallway when he arms grabs my hand. Where do you think youre going?

Me? I say. I assumed alone meant you without me.

Stay?

I squeeze his hand. Im here.

With a solemn nod, he leads me into the bedroom that has blue curtains with red stars splattered over them. Hammer? He holds out his hand while running his other hand over the wall, as if searching for the perfect spot to smash. I dig out the hammer from my handbag and pass it over. He gives a strained smile, turns, stares at the wall, then steps back and hurls the hammer, cracking the wall into a web of plaster and white powder.

I flinch at the explosion of sound. He doesnt notice, he just stares at the first inkling of a hole and slams the hammer again, widening the gap. I flinch again; a little less this time. He slams the hammer two more times, his whole-body heaving and throwing itself behind the force of the hammer, while I stand there silently crying, not out of fear, but at watching someone break down.

Plaster is everywhere, over the boys desk and lamp and schoolwork, but Aaron sees none of it. Breath heaving, he rubs his eyes on the back of his sleeve before putting his hand down the hole. He gives a soft hiss, reaches deeper into the wall cavity and retrieves a wide cylinder of grey plastic. He sits on the bed, staring at it through a mess of hair. Im not sure whether to sit beside him or give him space, but I walk slowly toward the bed where he instinctively knows how far to grab my hand and pull me beside him, even though his eyes never stray from the time capsule.

He rotates the cylinder in his hands. Wed been creating time capsules at school. Damien and I had thought it was stupid at first. That was until my dad suggested we do one of our own.

I nod, but say nothing, scared to break this moment for him. He gives the capsule a hard twist and it separates in two. A roll of paper juts out and he laughs sadly. Tugging the paper free, he places the capsule between his legs and unravels the discolored paper, reads it quickly, folds it up, and places it on the desk. He tips the capsule. Four things spill out into his palm: a DVD in a clear cover; two wrist bands with metal and quartz threaded through the black leather strings; and a photograph.

Aaron lays the slightly blurred photograph on top of the pile and clutches it with both hands. I peer over and see a younger version of Aaron, hair swept messily across his forehead and mischief in his eyes. Fifteen-year-old me would have followed that grin of his around the schoolyard any day of the week. His arm is slung around his brothers neck, making the younger Randall sink lower into the photograph, but Damien is smiling goofily at the camera, his sandy hair ruffled, his face full of laughter. The charms hanging from the trees in the front yard sparkle, taking up the edges of the background. My heart aches when I see the same leather wristbands from the capsule glistening on the boys wrists.

Aaron sniffs. His shoulders rise and fall sharply.

Tentatively, I lay my hand on his shoulder.

He stills and the capsule drops to the ground with an empty thud. Holding the mementos in one hand, he clutches his head and openly sobs.

My hand goes to my mouth and I cant stop my tears as I rise from the bed and stand before him, running my hands through his hair in endless circles.

His arms fold around my legs as he buries his head against my stomach, and my heart hurts almost as much as when Id lost my parents. Softly, I begin to hum our demo song and sway him back and forth until hes moving in time. He pulls back and swings me onto his lap. My arms wrap around his neck as I look up at him through his curtain of hair. His pupils are dilated, his irises the vividest blue and brown.

Laying my hand over his cheek, my heart twists as he closes his eyes and I see the tears upon his lashes. It is the most gut-wrenching face Ive ever seen. His forehead bends to mine, and we sit there for what could be minutes or hours, until Aaron is ready to walk out the door.