The café was modest and quiet, tucked between a florist and a bookstore. They ordered small lunches—soup for Gwen, a sandwich for Elizabeth. The conversation began stiffly. They traded polite updates: work, the weather, grocery prices. Gwen stirred her soup slowly, unsure what direction, if any, the meal would take.
After a pause, Elizabeth glanced up. “The hotel I booked has bedbugs,” she said, almost sheepishly. “Apparently, there’s a shortage of rooms this weekend. I’ve called around, but everything’s booked or sketchy. I hate to ask, but… would it be alright if I stayed at the house for a few days?”