In My Shoes by Adrian Stephens Page A

Nicole’s house, I was
feeling a little self-conscious about my own house.
    “Well, it doesn’t compare to your house, but
it’s home,” I said meekly.
    “I hope you don’t think that matters to me,”
she said, affronted. “I love my house, but my parents raised me not
to be about things . I realize it may not look like it from
the size of our house, but if you look closely, it’s very
functional.”
    I particularly liked the functional movie
theater. “I noticed. It’s just…well, it’s just very nice.”
    “Well, thank you, but I saw your house
earlier. It’s not as big, obviously, but it seemed nice. At least
what I saw of it as I was running out the door. It matters a lot
more how you live than where you live. I didn’t feel uncomfortable
in your house. Okay, so I did feel uncomfortable in your house, but
it was more about waking up in a strange place and a strange body
than it being your house. Don’t worry about me. I’ll be just fine
in your house while I’m here…hopefully just for today. Although…I
don’t know if I’ll get used to sleeping in your bed.”
    “What’s wrong with my bed?” I asked.
    “It’s your bed. I should say, it’s a
guy’s bed. It just doesn’t seem right.” She was smiling when she
said it, so I figured she was being playful.
    “You should talk. I’m not exactly looking
forward to sleeping with all of the frilly flowers on your pillows
and blankets. And pink. Everywhere pink.”
    “Well then, let’s just hope things are back
to normal in the morning,” she countered.
    We had made our way in through the front
door. “So,” I continued, “this shouldn’t take too long. The living
room is to the left. We usually save this room for company, but we
don’t have a lot of company, so it’s almost never used.
    “You can get to the kitchen through that
opening in the living room or you can just walk straight down this
hall.”
    I turned left and faced the kitchen. “The
fridge is on the left, there. Feel free to help yourself to
anything in there. The pantry is to the left of the fridge. You can
help yourself to anything in there also.”
    “Thank you,” she replied.
    “Sure. Okay, so I cook for my mom usually
about three times a week. If we are still switched…”
    “No problem,” she responded back. “My mom
does most of the cooking, but she’s taught me quite a bit. What do
you cook for your mom?”
    “I’m not a great cook,” I said, “but she
always appreciates the effort. I can make just about anything with
instructions on the box. Feel free to prepare anything you see. If
she acts surprised, tell her you are trying something new. She’ll
tell you it’s great…and she’ll mean it.”
    “Got it.”
    “Okay,” I continued, “as you can see, the
kitchen not only opens back to the living room and the hall, but
around the island it opens to the dining area and den. We either
eat at the dining area table or we eat at the island, and we watch
TV in the den. There is a bathroom against that wall next to the
television.”
    We circled back around the island to the
hallway we entered from, facing the front door. From where we were
standing, we headed left down the main hallway.
    “Everything else is straight down this
hallway here. On the right, there is a guest bedroom and then the
door to the garage. The washer and dryer are in the garage. Sorry,
but I do my own laundry.”
    “I’m sure I can figure it out. I know the
basics. Do you…do your mom’s laundry?”
    “Sometimes, to help her out. She won’t ask
you to, and she doesn’t expect it, so don’t worry about it.” She
seemed to show a bit of relief on her face, not that I could blame
her. I wouldn’t want to do some strange woman’s laundry either.
    “On the left, here, is my mother’s room.” We
headed into my mother’s room.
    “What is your mom’s name?” she asked.
    “Oh, sorry. Her name is Angela. Matthews,
same as mine.”
    “What about your dad?”
    “I don’t