A kitchen that looks into the main room, a bay window for a Christmas tree, a suburban house nestled by a cul-de-sac. A backyard that can hold a swing set. Alex looked for these things. Because she wants to make this place her home. Withme.
When I don’t respond right away, she must get the wrong idea because her smile falters. “Whenever you’re ready,” she says, and I can hear the apprehension in her voice.
I’d head down to the U-Haul and get a truck this very second if there weren’t real-world logistics to work through, like figuring out how to get out of the contract to my apartment and how much it will cost to do so. Yet the idea of creating a life with her, here, in this perfect house, makes me feel as though I’m floating. “I’m ready right now.”
She smiles in relief, and I take her face, and kiss her slowly and deeply.
I think I’ve always been ready.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Alex
Sparrow Gray was the right choice.
Each stroke of gray paint that covers the weird shade of mossy green—Jules says it’s more sage than moss—makes me feel more relaxed. We started with the main bedroom so we could bring in the brand-new, king-size bed, then worked our way through the living room and dining room. After that, we just kind of placed all our boxes and the rest of the furniture in the center of the rooms we haven’t yet painted.
Our parents helped a lot, too. Having Richard and Mr. Marrow carry most of the heavy stuff really helped us save some cash. Of course, the moms insisted on grocery shopping, which we also did not fight them on. All in all, we were out of our apartments and into the house in a day. And with the important rooms already painted, everything seems to be falling into place.
Jules walks in from the kitchen, Ripley hot on her heels, and places two plates on the coffee table. It’s only six, but she falls on the sofa with a grunt, clearly as tired as I am.
“Pretty sure I could fall asleep right now.” I groan.
“Same.” Jules stretches her arms over her head, clearly just as sore. There’s a spot of gray paint in her hair and along her cheek, and despite her exhaustion, she looks so cute, I can’t help but scoot a little closer.
Ripley collapses at our feet, and Jules turns down our Fleetwood Mac playlist and leans into me. Something warm expands in my chest.
“There’s this spot in the backyard where I think the peonies wouldlook nice,” Jules says and glances at the decent-sized peony bush her mother brought us from her backyard in a pot by the back door. “Maybe we could get a couple more bushes and make a whole row of them?”
It’s phrased like a question, as if she’s asking for permission. I’m pretty sure she still doesn’t quite grasp that I meant it when I said I wanted this to be her house, too. She doesn’t need to ask about every single thing, but I love that we’re making these kinds of decisions together.
“I think it’s a great idea.” I snag my bagel sandwich and take a large, grateful bite. “Fanks for da fanwich,” I say with a full mouth.
She kisses my cheek and leans back to survey the room. “It’s really starting to look nice. Chloe wants to see pictures when we’re done. As much as she teased us about U-Hauling, I think she really wanted to be here to help with all this.”
I snort because even though we’ve only been in a relationship for, like, three months, we’ve also been best friends for pretty much ever. So is itreallyU-Hauling?
“She also wishes she was here for you.” She says the last part softly, hesitantly, as if her words may break something inside me.
We’re fast approaching a year since I got the call about my brother. I’m okay, though. Mostly. I’ve been working througha lotin therapy, and it’s actually helped. Slowly but surely, I feel like I’m starting to figure shit out and deal with the things I’ve spent so long avoiding.
She puts her hand on my leg. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make the moment sad.”
“You didn’t,” I’m quick to assure her. She gives me a disbelieving look. That’s something else I’ve been working on in therapy. Being honest and open with my emotions and concerns. “Okay, you did, but it’s fine. It’s okay to talk about him.”
Jules nods and stares at the bookshelf I got her for her birthday. The floating corner one that looks like trees and branches for herSecret Gardencollection. It lies on the floor, ready to be installed if we ever finish painting.
My gaze shifts to the signed Johnny Bench baseball still in its case, right smack-dab in the middle of our fireplace mantel. Beside it is a framed Christmas photo where Mason saw the ball for the first time, his expression one of complete shock. The memory makes my chest tighten.
Jules sighs quietly. “I think he’d really like this house.”
“I hope so. He paid for it,” I joke.
There’s a breath of silence before we both burst into giggles.
“Speaking of Mason, when’s your next D&D session?”
“Ugh, Friday, if we ever get the internet hooked up. Adulting’s hard.” I pout, and she leans in to kiss me.
