I pull open the utility drawer next. Cat saunters between us, blissfully unaware of the brewing conflict between her humans. “You didn’t throw it away, did you? It’s the physical manifestation of our love.”
“Please, Chuck. Don’t give a phallus that kind of power.”
I grab a sad metal straw from the empty glass next to the sink and thoroughly rinse it under hot water. “I let you keep your toe shoes, and this is how you repay me?”
Behind me, Ethan wraps his arms around my waist and rests his head on my shoulder. “The straw was indecent.”
“Your Vibrams are indecent,” I parry.
He sighs into my neck and I can’t help but be a little giddy at the feel of him wrapped around me like this.
These are the moments I love most. The casual touches and dizzying banter that doesn’t lead to anything else—when we simply exist together. It’s those moments when I feel most rooted to the ground. Even when we’re headed somewhere, I knowwe’renot going anywhere.
He squeezes my middle. “It’s not gone. Just put away. It’s in that plastic bin in the garage with the camper plates.”
I twirl in his arms to face him.
Once we accepted that a van was simply too small for two people to live comfortably in for more than an extended weekend, we decided to upsize. For a brief, irrational moment, I’d considered buying two vans that we could caravan on the highway, one after another, like charter buses on a ski trip. Luckily, we’d kept in touch with Harlow and Russell, who tipped Ethan off to a two-hundred-square-foot vintage Holiday Rambler, and after a fair amount of money and elbow grease, it’s become my absolute favorite place to be…for two to three weeks at a time.
“I knew I loved you,” I say triumphantly, draping my arms around his neck.
“Can we keep the ‘physical manifestation of our love’ with the beer koozies?”
“I accept these terms.”
He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. “No counter? You already put my Vibrams out there on the proverbial chopping block.”
“Nah. Keep ’em,” I reply, peering into his gray blue eyes. “I’m feeling soft today.”
Today is Laurel and Petey’s anniversary, which is sort of our anniversary. Though Ethan argues our anniversary is actually this one night we ran out of gas in our early twenties when, unbeknownst to me, he realized he was in love with me. I argue that knowledge is required by both parties to create an anniversary, not to mention his proposed date is in November, and November in Minnesota will test anyone’s resolve. This year, we spent the entire month in Monterey, California, with Laurel and Petey, avoiding the harrowing transition from autumn to winter. Since my sister only forced my boyfriend to play Michael Kiwanuka’s “Cold Little Heart” on his guitar about six or seven times while she looked woefully at the shoreline and pretended she was Reese Witherspoon inBig Little Lies, I deemed the trip a success.
“Do you have much work today?” he asks, his fingers absently stroking my back.
I shake my head. “I have to finish a reply brief, but it should only take me a couple of hours.”
About two weeks after I bought Ethan’s van, one of Stacy’s law school friends connected her with an associate position at his much smaller—less dysfunctional—intellectual property firm. After settling in, she connected me with a position as a counsel attorney that offered the flexibility and autonomy of working for myself with some of the security of the law firmlife. Now I get to pick my clients and work on projects that matter to me. There’s no partnership path—something that used to be an immediate deal-breaker for me—but job security means something different to me now.
I spend my time with the people who feel like home. I work exclusively with and for people I respect. Sometimes I make art, not to live, but to fill me up. One day, I might find a way to make a career out of it like Harlow does. Or maybe I won’t. There’s no plan or agenda. For now, it’s nice doing things for no other reason than that they make me happy.
My head droops to his shoulder, my spine a noodle in the face of his gentle ministrations. “The patent examiner was so egregiously off base with his rejection that I’m hoping my righteous indignation will fuel me for most of the morning. After that, I’m all yours.”
“I love that for you.” He plants a kiss on top of my head. “I have to finish mixing that thing for Ivan, but then I’m good if we want to go somewhere this weekend.”
It takes everything in me to keep my face neutral, because I have a feeling about what this weekend has in store. “Yeah. Let’s go.”
Throughout the morning, Ethan shuffles between our shared office and the kitchen, Cat hot on his trail like a furry shadow. Meanwhile, I work on the back deck, thinking about everything other than the emerald ring I found in one of Ethan’s five-finger-shoe monstrosities two days prior.
We haven’t talked much about getting married, other than a few of those naked, late-night conversations when everything exists in the hypothetical. Somewhere betweenIf I turned into a zombie, would you kill me?andWe shouldtotally move to Gstaad, Ethan whispered, “I know you don’t want to get married again, but there’s this caveman part of me that really wants to call you my wife. Is that weird?”
“You can just call me your wife if you want,” I said back. “We don’t need to be married for that.”
“I can’t juststartcalling you my wife. There should at least be rings involved, even if we never make it legal.”
And now there’s an emerald ring, and I’m sweating through my linen sundress.
“Charley, can you help me with something down here on the dock?” Ethan calls out just out of sight. I climb down the rickety wood stairs and follow the path to the water. Ethan comes into view. He’s in one of his nicer shirts—one with buttons—and he’s down on one knee.
“You’re doing this now?” I blurt, then cover my mouth with my hand. “I mean, I thought you were doing this this weekend.”
