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I laugh, stepping back and bunching my hands playfully into fists. “I could do it myself, Banjo, but didn’t want to steal the show and make poor Weston feel inadequate,” I tease back, pretending to flex my own considerably less impressive arms. The reality of the situation is that there isn’t a whole lot to move, and it’s a short trip in the freight elevator, but some of Weston’s furniture is bulky, and help maneuvering them through the narrow doorways would be appreciated.
Banjo responds with a hearty chuckle, “Ah, don’t want old Weston here to think he’s shacked up with a strongwoman, eh?” He winks at me before setting the donuts on the counter.
Weston, who’s been watching our exchange with an amused smile, pipes up from the corner of the room. “Banjo, I think she’s got you beat. Better be careful, those donuts are going straight to your biceps,” he quips, pointing at Banjo’s prized muscles. We all laugh, and I can tell that Banjo is truly happy for Weston. And judging by how much the older man cares about him—how he’s important to the man I love—that means something to me.
Banjo has been a part of Weston’s life for all the time that matters. He’s more than a friend; he’s the closest thing Weston has to a father. His approval and blessing of our relationship is more important than Gail’s.
Returning his attention to me, Banjo winks, his eyes twinkling with mischievous warmth. “Well, I think our boy Weston’s done good for himself. You keep him on his toes, don’t ya?”
I laugh, nodding. “That’s the plan, Banjo. And you keep those donuts coming.” I indicate the box on the counter. Sweets are a guilty pleasure of mine, and after so many shifts at the bar together, he knows it.
Banjo chuckles again, patting his belly. “Well, Frostvale Baker can bake some great donuts, but wait until Christmas. I’ve got a recipe for gingerbread cookies that’ll knock your socks off. I even bake ‘em myself.”
Already, I mentally file away this information for future gift ideas. A custom apron withBanjo’s Bakeryembroidered on it? Or a set of designer cookie cutters? Either way, I’m grateful for his help and his kindness, but most of all for his approval and support.
This is the start of a new chapter in our lives, and I’m grateful Banjo is here to help us turn the page.My family isn’t far behind, showing up right as the guys are manhandling Weston’s bookcase into the elevator. Ensley shoots me a wink and a thumbs-up at the way Weston’s arms look in his tank top while doing all of the heavy lifting, and I roll my eyes before Mom crushes me in a hug.
“We brought you some things,” Eden adds, shoving a large bag at me. At first, I’m touched and surprised at the idea that they would bring me a housewarming gift. And then I look in the bag. It’s all cleaning supplies, soaps, toilet paper, and paper towels. Of course. While Eden inherited Mom’s candor, sheandEnsley have always shared her practicality. It’s a nice gesture nonetheless, and I make sure to tuck the bag under the sink. It seems to perfectly illustrate the different kinds of friends we attract, and I smile to myself at the contrast.
Dad can’t come because he’s watching the shop—something that won’t be a problem going forward, now that I’ve convinced my parents to actually hire at least one employee not part of the Lorenson gene pool.
The addition of my family created a buzz in the room that is both chaotic and heartwarming. To their credit, they all manage to be exceedingly polite to Weston. Ensley is practically swooning over him but somehow manages to keep her ogling PG-13 and not let her eyes turn into giant cartoon hearts.
With a dreamy sigh, she turns to me. “You sure know how to pick ‘em, don’t you?” she teases, her eyes darting back to Weston.
“Keep dreaming, Ens,” I retort, grinning.
Then there’s Mom, who thankfully manages to avoid any embarrassing childhood stories, much to my relief. However, she still manages to slip in a few sly comments. “I remember when you couldn’t even keep a goldfish alive. I never thought I’d see the day you’d be looking after a whole apartment. And a man too!” she exclaims with feigned astonishment, earning a chuckle from Weston.
Eden, the most serious of us, even manages to crack a nearly full-faced smile. It’s an event as rare as any meteorological phenomenon. Yet, here she is, deep in conversation with Banjo about tax deductions and the importance of saving receipts for his music gigs.
“So, Banjo,” she begins with a tone that screams ‘business,’ “you really ought to consider filing your taxes as a self-employed individual. You’d be surprised by how many deductions you could claim.”
Banjo, taken aback, blinks before replying with his signature grin, “Well, Eden, I reckon I never thought about it that way. I usually just put all my earnings into my mattress.”
Eden blinks at him, clearly trying to determine if he’s joking. But I can tell from the twinkle in Banjo’s eye that he’s enjoying the interaction.
Any type of banter is her idea of fun, and it’s clear she’s enjoying herself. Plus, it’ll definitely save Banjo some cash in the long run, so I decide not to interfere. Besides, Banjo seems as captivated by Eden’s exotic beauty as most men tend to be, so he just lets her keep talking.
“Mattress savings, huh?” Eden retorts, her lips curving into a smirk. “That’s a new one. Just make sure you don’t lose that mattress in a fire, or you’ll be in real trouble.”
The room erupts in laughter, and I can’t help but feel a burst of warmth. The chaos, teasing, and unending chatter, all feel like home. And Weston, the newest addition to this madcap family, fits right in.
By late afternoon, we’re almost done, save a few boxes and some post-move-out cleaning. The apartment felt big this morning, but now with six people and a mountain of boxes piled inside of it, it’s starting to seem a little claustrophobic. Everyone is climbing over each other to help sort and unpack, and I already feel like I need some air when somebody knocks on the door.
Weston looks at me with his eyebrow arched. Neither of us was expecting anybody else. He wades through the boxes toward the door, and the voice that comes from the other side makes me jump.
“Am I too late to help?” A soft, hesitant voice interrupts the flurry of activity in the room. We all turn to find Gail, Weston’s mother, standing in the doorway, an unsure smile on her face.
“Mom?” Weston’s voice echoes his surprise. “How did you get here?”
“I took an Uber,” Gail admits, a note of pride in her voice. “It took me a little while to figure out, and the guy was a terrible driver and his car smelled too strongly of air freshener.” She pauses, realizing her litany of complaints, and her face softens. I know Weston’s been trying hard to keep her as positive as possible, and it’s heartening to see it bear fruit. “Anyway. I did it, and I’m here. Now put me to work. Please.”
There’s a palpable moment of shared amusement before Weston shakes his head with a laugh, pulling her into a warm, enveloping hug. After a round of introductions, he gently nudges her toward a box of dishes that need arranging in the kitchen cabinets.
Before I know it, I catch the low murmur of Gail’s voice blending with my mother’s in the kitchen. The clatter of dishes and the soft hum of their conversation fills the room with a comforting rhythm. Despite the chaos, the apartment starts to resemble a functioning living space in no time.
I find myself drifting toward the kitchen, drawn by the warmth of the conversation. I see my mother and Gail standing side by side, working together in a synchronized dance of unpacking and arranging.
