I throw Clem an angry glare as I snap, “Well, he’s clear across on the other side.”
He smiles at me patiently, patting my knee with his hand.
“Three-hundred miles, a five-hour drive, a little over an hour flying.He could’ve picked LA or Boston or even Florida, but instead he opted for Seattle.You can get to him or he can get home in half a day.He’s not helpless, he’s got his wheels.”
I had been beyond relieved when Linc announced he’d chosen the University of Washington to pursue his psychology degree.Although the football program wasn’t exactly up to par with UCLA or Notre Dame, he said it had shown a growing curve over the past few years.I’m not at all sure what that means, but it doesn’t really matter, I was just glad it did the trick to keep my boy closer to home.
Except, now that we’ve dropped him off with all of his stuff in the small dorm room he’s going to call home for the next year, three-hundred miles feels more like three hundred light-years.
We left home yesterday, driving in convoy, with Remi and Mouse in Linc’s Jeep, and Clem and me in Clem’s truck, loaded full with all Linc’s stuff he insisted on taking.We got on the road early, arrived there shortly after lunchtime, and spent most of the afternoon trying to fit everything we’d hauled—up to and including a mini fridge, large screen TV, and his gaming chair—into his dorm room.The result is you almost have to leap from the door to get to his bed, but he seemed perfectly happy, and was super excited to be spending his first night “on his own.”
The rest of us ended up in a hotel that allowed pets, not far from campus.
This morning we picked Linc up from his dorm, and found a nice diner for breakfast before saying goodbye.
“When we get home, can I move into his room?”Remi asks from the back seat he’s sharing with a loudly snoring Mouse.
“No, you cannot move into his room,” I return sharply.“He’ll be back for weekends, study weeks, holidays, and spring and summer breaks.”
“Well, then can I move to the basement?I’ll do it myself.”
I twist in my seat so I can look at my son.He’s been on a tear about moving out of his room for a few weeks now.
“Why do you need to move at all?Your room is fine.”
He rolls his eyes at me.
“I figured you guys would want some more privacy up there when Clem moves in.”
When he moves in?
We already spend most of our nights together—and for all intents and purposes share our lives—but, over the last ten or so months, we haven’t really discussed actually making that final move.
I’ve thought about it, but I wasn’t sure if Clem would want to give up living at the firehouse he’d just bought and renovated, and never brought it up.
But now I wonder if perhaps Clem has talked to Remi about it.
My eyes find Clem’s, and he raises his eyebrows in question.
Clem
“And with Lincnow at school, there’s room in the driveway for the truck.”
I stifle a chuckle at Remi’s clear push to get me moved into the house.
He’d dropped a heavy hint or two with me over the past few months, and it’s not that the thought doesn’t appeal to me, because it does—very much so—but there are some logistics to consider.
For one thing, I stretched my financial flexibility to the max so I could buy the firehouse last year and turn it into a shared work and living space.I don’t think it’s right to move into Tessa’s house unless I can carry my share of the financial burden for the house and the household.
It doesn’t make sense for Tessa and the boys to move in with me; there’s not enough space, and no backyard.It seems more logical for me to move, and Mouse would absolutely love it.She’s a big fan of having a backyard.
But this past year since I reopened my shop in the new location, business has been good, steady, and I’ve been able to take some of the financial pressure off.It’s given me a chance to think about alternatives, the possibility of renting out the apartment to cover the remaining mortgage payments on the firehouse.Then I’d be able to afford buying into Tessa’s house.
“Besides,” Remi continues from the back seat, teasing, “Clem is going to need a craft room for his knitting, so he could have my room.”
“Hey,” I protest, catching the kid’s mischievous eyes in my rearview mirror.“First of all, it’s crocheting, but more importantly, are you making fun of my handiwork?”
“I’m just saying,” he returns, his hands up defensively.“I’ve seen your collection of yarn.”
