I hear the distant sound of a door close. A couple minutes later, I recognize my mom’s footsteps coming up the stairs. I left Austen’s room just in time. Her face peers around my slightly open door, her dark hair swinging just above her shoulder.

“Hi,” I greet her, automatically mirroring the infectious smile she’s wearing. She slips in and closes the door behind her. “You have a good time?” She sighs happily and lies down on the bed next to me. I glance at her profile, seeing how similar it is to mine.

“I hope you meet someone who makes you this happy someday,” she murmurs. “Hey, let’s paint your room next weekend.” I nod slowly. Painting is a sign, I think. A sign that we’re here for the long haul. She brought it up when we first moved here, but I think she was waiting to actually go through with it until she was sure things were working out. And as far as she knows, they are. “What color do you think?”

“I don’t know,” I reply absentmindedly. “What do you think?”

“How about peach?”

I hate peach. “Sounds good.”

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