To Appear Untouched

By the time Gabriel and Avery walked through the door, Jules had already erased the evidence she had slept there. The sheets were pulled tight, the pillows stacked without crease, the faint warmth of her body traded for a starch-cold smoothness. In the kitchen the counter gleamed, though she remembered the knife dropping to the surface as she buttered toast in the half-dark. The mug she had used was wrapped in a grocery bag and tucked beneath the driver’s seat of her car, still damp at the rim. She let them step inside the house she had already slept in, eaten in, and arranged again to look untouched.

They entered with the curiosity of people who believed in futures, their gazes moving across walls and windows like surveyors of possibility. Avery walked ahead, already half-claiming the living room. Her hair brushed her shoulders as she turned slowly, reading the light the way others read print. Gabriel trailed, less immediate in his interest, but when his hand swept across the counter, Jules felt the weight of his palm land against her memory. She smiled as if she had nothing to hide and spoke of stone and cabinetry in the practiced cadence of a brochure.

Avery asked about the district. Jules gave the name of a school that softened buyers, steadying her voice into a rhythm that made promises sound like facts. She described the quiet of the street at night, the reliability of the commute, the ease of Saturday errands from this address. She didn't mention that the bathroom mirror had fogged beneath her breath that morning or that her hair had left a pattern of wet strands along the drain. She had cleaned quickly, efficiently, but the truth of her presence still seemed suspended in the air, waiting to be noticed.

They moved through the hallway together, Jules leading as though nothing belonged to her, though she remembered the slight groan of the floorboards when she stepped here barefoot. The bedroom smelled faintly of soap, the trace of her skin, though Avery only remarked on the width of the closet and the depth of the window ledge. Gabriel opened the door to the patio, and the stiff track answered in its usual protest. Outside, the lawn presented itself as ordered, precise, the bird feeder swinging gently in the neighbor’s yard. Jules spoke of sunlight and growing seasons, the way the air turned clear in autumn, and she watched their shoulders lean into the vision she created.

They stood together on the patio, the couple looking toward the yard as if they already belonged there. Gabriel reached for Avery’s hand, and the gesture carried more weight than any offer could. Jules spoke more of the neighborhood, her voice steady, while she registered that the house was already moving away from her.

Gabriel and Avery stepped out. Jules closed the door, locked it, and walked back through the living room. She lifted the cushion and pressed the fabric flat, rubbed her sleeve across the table until the ring disappeared, then clicked each blind into place. In the kitchen she smoothed the counter where Gabriel had rested his hand, wiped the refrigerator handle, and shut it firmly. She checked the bathroom sink, lifted a strand of hair from the tile, and slid it into her pocket. In the spare room she stretched the sheet tight across the bed and shook the pillow back into shape. She moved once more through the hall, brushing her fingers across the banister, closing each door with care, and only then pocketed the keys and stepped outside.

The keys struck together, jarring her thigh through her stride. She carried them to the car, dropped them into the console, and slid behind the wheel. The metal still rang in her ears as she leaned forward, catching the smell of lemon polish while pulling the folded rag from under the seat. A slow arc across the windshield cleared the glass, then the rag folded tight again and disappeared back beneath the cushion.

At the trunk she lifted the suitcase onto the bumper, unzipped it, and checked the folded jeans, the shirts stacked in uneven piles, the jacket pressed at the elbows. A loaf of bread shifted under her hand as she reached for the jar of peanut butter, twisting the lid to be sure it stayed tight with the knife lodged inside. The bag closed neatly around it before she set it back in its place.

Every door shut with a firm push. She returned to the driver’s seat, started the engine, and watched the street stretch forward while the house behind her kept its silence.

The radio remained off with her hand steady on the wheel. Engines droned around her, tires beat against the breaks in the asphalt, and the car moved in rhythm with the lane. Houses slid past in rows, grass cut low, shutters bright with new paint. At each corner she checked her mirrors, shifted lanes, and read the green signs overhead. A notebook lay open on the passenger seat with the next address written in thick black ink, the page curling at the edge. She glanced at it once, pressed her foot harder on the pedal, and followed the line of traffic toward the turn that would take her there.

She wasn't running exactly. Rather, moving to stay in the comfort of being the kind of person no one asked questions about.

The house she opened an hour later greeted her with dust. Its shutters hung slightly crooked, its driveway split in two places, its living room faintly sour from weeks of vacancy. She carried her bag to the kitchen, filled the chipped mug from the tap, and drank until her throat cooled. The floor was warm in the afternoon heat, and she lay back, shoes off, eyes tracing the ceiling where water had once leaked. The refrigerator motor hummed in intervals, then cut off, leaving her alone with the buzz of blood in her ears.

She wouldn't stay long. Buyers expected to see blankness, and blankness required discipline. Before evening she would smooth the curtains, wipe every counter, fold her presence back into the grocery bag and the suitcase. For now the house belonged to her, if only in the way silence belongs to the body resting inside it, and that was enough.

Jules kept one house apart from the rest. It sat at the end of a narrow street where traffic thinned and the maples leaned close enough to darken the sidewalks. She carried its key on the same ring as all the others, but she touched it less, knowing its weight could cost her everything. Corena sent her listings in stacks, urging her to rotate showings evenly, but Jules avoided this one whenever possible.

When buyers asked about it, she gave them answers that ended the conversation. A couple wanted to see the property last spring, and she steered them to another listing two streets over. She told them the inspection had raised questions about the roof. She spoke with authority, and the couple signed elsewhere. Another man pressed her in June, insisting he had driven by and liked the porch. Jules said the seller had withdrawn and promised to contact him if that changed. She never did.

She wasn’t sure why she’d claimed this one. The walls didn’t echo different. But every time she touched the doorknob, something in her stilled.

Corena noticed the pattern once. “That house won’t move itself,” she said across the office desk, tapping her pen against the file. Jules nodded as though she agreed. She closed two other sales that month, and Corena turned her attention to newer agents. Jules understood how to meet the numbers while protecting the place she wanted for herself.

She unlocked the door and pushed it wide, letting the sound carry through bare rooms. The boards gave back each step she took, sharp and hollow, so she crossed the living room twice more, faster this time, until the rhythm felt like her own. In the hallway she opened and closed every door, listening to the hinges, the latches, the echo that followed. She climbed the stairs and ran her palm along the wall as she went, marking the dust in a pale streak.

This was the only place left that her movements didn't feel borrowed.

In the small bedroom she stretched out on the floor, arms wide, and stared at the ceiling. The air pressed close, the corners pulled in, and her body fit the shape of the room. She rolled once, twice, until the boards caught her shoulder, then sat up with her back against the wall.

Downstairs again, she worked every window, lifting the frames, shoving them closed, locking each catch. She tested the back door twice, then three times, pulling until the knob rattled. She circled the house once more, her footsteps a steady track across the emptiness, each pass drawing her deeper into its silence.

Her care here exceeded what she gave any other property. And the house never betrayed her.

Back at her office, a new stack of listings dropped onto her desk with a heavy slap. Jules flipped through them fast, paper rasping under her fingers, until Brookline showed up halfway through the pile. She dragged her pen across the page, circling an address on another property so it looked like she had found what she needed, then slid the Brookline folder beneath the stack.

Jules lifted the folder on top, pointed at a colonial across town, and said she had buyers circling it. Corena nodded and kept moving. Jules waited until the footsteps faded, then slipped Brookline into her bag.

That afternoon she showed three other houses. She unlocked doors, flicked on lights, guided people through kitchens and basements. She sold square footage, school districts, and backyard fences, every detail meant to keep attention away from the one property she refused to offer.

Back in the office Jules filed contracts, her bag still heavy with the folder she hadn’t logged. When the others left for the evening she set it on the copier, pressed the lid down, and ran blank sheets until the machine jammed. The crumpled paper came out warm in her hands; she shoved it into the recycling bin and slipped Brookline back into her bag before heading to the car.

Corena stopped at her desk as she returned and tapped a knuckle against the surface. “Brookline’s been quiet too long,” she said.

Jules rested her hand on the folder. “Has the buyer been preapproved? Are the funds in place?”

“Yes.”

“Any contingencies?”

“No.”

“Other agents involved?”

Corena shook her head. “Yours to close.”

The words left no space for delay.

Jules agreed to arrange the showing and stepped into the corridor. She passed the desks, pushed through the glass door, and walked into the heat of the lot. In the car she opened the folder across the wheel, the first page carrying the buyer’s name, Irena Varnes.

She stared at the letters until they blurred, until the ordinary shape of them turned sharp. She closed the folder and started the car.

The next day she walked a family through a split-level, speaking of rooflines and school access with the ease of habit. Even as she talked, her thoughts stayed at Brookline, caught on the bedroom floorboards and the lilac crowding the fence.

When the showing ended she drove past the office, parked two blocks away, and pulled the folder from her bag. The page confirmed the offer was clean, cash ready, the kind that closed fast.

Jules began to think through her options. She could call Corena and claim the seller had raised new conditions. She could misplace the paperwork and ask for time. She could schedule the showing and interfere before it concluded. She turned each one over, none better than the last.

She drove to Brookline that evening. The rooms met her as they always had, the silence spreading around her body. She walked to the small bedroom and stretched across the floor, staying there until the light fell away. She tried to imagine the house without her, but couldn't, as if some part of her had become part of its memory.

Jules called Corena first thing.

“The seller’s raising questions,” she said. “It might slow us down.”

“What questions?”

“Title, maybe. I’ll check the file.”

“Bring me the paperwork,” Corena said.

“I’ll have it this afternoon.”

She ended the call, grabbed her bag, and drove to Brookline. At the kitchen counter she spread the folder open. The offer sat on the first page, cash in full. She closed it, shoved it aside, filled the mug at the sink, and drank.

The phone rang before noon.

“I spoke with the seller,” Corena said. “The title’s clean. Nothing you didn't already know. Showing’s tomorrow.”

Jules held the phone tight. “Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow. Don’t be late.”

Jules drove aimlessly through the afternoon, circling blocks with no destination. She slowed at corners, sped through yellow lights, braked hard when traffic thickened. Her fingers worked the steering wheel until the skin ached. Gas stations, storefronts, and cul-de-sacs blurred together, each turn as empty as the last. She gripped the wheel tighter, tried to force a plan into shape, but the roads kept taking her in circles.

The next morning Corena caught her at the office. “The buyer’s confirmed for nine,” she said. “You’ll be there to open the door.”

Jules nodded, signed out her schedule, and walked back into the heat. The folder weighed against her side as she crossed the lot. She started the car, turned toward Brookline, and drove until the driveway rose ahead of her.

Right at nine a sedan pulled into the drive. A woman stepped out, steady in her movements, face unreadable. Jules walked to the door, forced her voice into greeting, and the woman gave a short nod in return.

They walked the house in silence, Jules unlocking doors, pulling curtains wide, clicking on light switches as they went. Her voice carried through each room, pointing out wiring, roof work, and the age of the furnace. The buyer glanced once at the closets, bent to look at the basement steps, then moved on without a word. In the kitchen she lingered, opening the back door and stepping onto the patio. She stood there long enough for Jules to wonder if she’d speak, then turned, crossed the living room, and headed back to the entry.

At the threshold she said the house would suit her. Car keys in hand, she walked down the path, slid into her car, and drove away.

By evening Corena called.

“The offer’s signed,” she said. “Full price. Cash.”

Jules sat in her car with the folder open across her lap. “Already?”

“Paperwork’s clean. Closing will move fast.”

Jules traced the edge of the page with her thumb, then shut the folder. “I’ll bring it in tomorrow.”

“Good,” Corena said, and the line went dead.

Jules set the folder on the seat beside her and started the engine.

The offer went through faster than she expected. Corena handled the signatures, the escrow, the details that closed doors and opened accounts. Jules kept her head down, showing other properties, answering questions about square footage, memorizing details of neighborhoods she did not care about. The folder for Brookline stayed on Corena’s desk, then disappeared into the system with the rest of the month’s closings.

Jules left the office early that Friday. The parking lot shimmered in the heat, and the air carried the dry tang of cut grass. She slid into her car and sat with her hand on the wheel. The seat belt hung slack at her shoulder, the radio silent. For a moment she thought about driving past Brookline, letting herself see the siding one last time, but the thought stayed where it was, unfinished.

Instead she pulled onto the avenue and joined the flow of traffic heading east. Billboards rose over the lanes, fast food, insurance, a lawyer with a grin too wide. She passed through intersections she barely registered, her body turning the wheel, pressing the brake, following the rhythm of other cars.

The city spread past her windshield, laundromat windows reflecting the sun beside a bakery with boards nailed across its doors, a field stretching wide where teenagers cut across the grass with their backpacks low, and a row of houses drawn tight together so the walls seemed to lean into one another. Jules drove through it all, the views changing with each block, none of them holding her.

She drove until the gas gauge dipped near empty, then pulled into a station and filled the tank. The sun had shifted by then, lowering itself into the haze of late afternoon, and the air pressed against her skin with the heaviness of the season. She leaned against the car while the numbers ticked upward, the smell of fuel sharp and real. When the tank filled, she replaced the nozzle and sat back inside, her hand resting on the key in the ignition.

She didn’t decide where to go. Streets split in every direction. She pressed the pedal, and carried on. She kept waiting for something to stop her, but nothing in her body told her to go back. She continued somewhere further, somewhere new. There would be a new house to unlive in, but for now movement held.