Susan Miller stood frozen, her hands twisting in the fabric of her apron. She looked like she was waiting for an explosion.
Aria didn't wait for an invitation. She dropped her bag by the door and walked straight to the woman. She didn't offer a handshake. She stepped into Susan's personal space and wrapped her arms around her.
Susan went rigid. Then, a sob broke from her throat, and she collapsed against Aria, her arms coming up to clutch at Aria's back with desperate strength.
She smelled of cheap laundry detergent and onions. It was the smell of a home that was lived in, not curated. Aria closed her eyes for a second, inhaling it. It settled something jagged inside her chest.
Behind them, the teenage boy, Leo, scoffed loudly. He turned around, his face twisted in a scowl. He had the same nose as Aria.
Frank cleared his throat nervously. "This is... this is everyone. That's Leo. And Toby."
The little boy behind the couch stared at the reflective buckle on Aria's backpack. He took a tentative step forward.
"And Jenny," Frank added, gesturing to a girl walking out of the kitchen. She was holding a stack of mismatched plates. She looked at Aria with cool, guarded eyes, nodding once before setting the table.
"Shoes," Aria said, looking down at her boots. She kicked them off.
There were no guest slippers. Just the scuffed wooden floor. Aria stepped onto the wood in her socks. She could feel the grain, the imperfections.
"Dinner is ready," Frank said, his voice overly bright. "Meatloaf."
They sat around a table that was meant for four, squeezing in a fifth chair. Knees bumped against knees. Elbows knocked together.
Aria looked at the plate in front of her. It had a chip on the rim. Leo was watching her, waiting for her to sneer at it. Waiting for the princess to complain.
She picked up her fork. She cut a large piece of the meatloaf, which was heavy on the filler and light on the meat, and put it in her mouth. She chewed slowly.
It was salty. It was dense.
"It's better than the French food uptown," Aria said. She looked at Susan. "Thank you."
Susan beamed, wiping her eyes. "Eat, eat. You're too skinny."
Leo slammed his fork down. "Oh, come on. Stop acting. We know you're used to caviar. You're probably laughing at us inside."
"Leo!" Frank snapped. "That is enough!"
The table went silent. Toby shrank back in his chair.
Aria put her fork down. The metal clicked against the ceramic. She turned her head slowly to look at Leo. Her expression was unreadable.
"I don't need caviar," she said, her voice low and even. "I need a family."
Leo opened his mouth to retort, but the words died in his throat. He looked away, flushing red.
Jenny paused with her glass halfway to her mouth, her eyes narrowing as she reassessed Aria.
Under the table, a small hand tugged on Aria's jeans. It was Toby. He pushed a bottle of ketchup toward her.
"It makes it better," he whispered.
Aria took the bottle. She winked at him. Toby giggled, his face turning pink.
When the meal was over, Aria stood up and began stacking the plates.
"No, no, Miss... Aria, you are a guest!" Susan protested, trying to take the plates from her.
"I live here now," Aria said. "I do my share."
She carried the stack to the sink. She turned on the tap, the pipes groaning before spitting out water. She grabbed the sponge and began to scrub. Her movements were efficient, though she braced her hip against the counter to take the weight off her lower back. She cleaned the dishes with the same methodical precision she used to disassemble firearms.
Jenny leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"You washed dishes at the Carlisle mansion?" she asked, skepticism dripping from her tone.
"No," Aria said, rinsing a glass and setting it in the rack without looking. "But I learn fast."
In the living room, Leo turned on the TV, blasting the volume to drown out the sound of her voice.
Aria dried her hands on a rag. She walked out of the kitchen, her eyes scanning the room. In the corner, covered by an old sheet, stood an easel. It was dusty. Neglected.
She filed that information away.
Frank gestured toward a closed door. "Your... your room is this way."
