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Today, in the light of late morning, which pours into that bedroom, it’ll be like tugging down a microscope on my mess and shoving it in his face.
No, thank you.
Christopher’s home is worn around the edges and sweetly dated—all of which I adore—but for all the things others might think could use improving, its tidiness and cleanliness are not among them. Christopher is a neatnik. He likes doing things like wiping down his fancy coffee machine after each use and deploying a lightweight shinyvacuum to pick up crumbs in the kitchen’s corners after cooking. He voluntarily did my laundry, for Christ’s sake. He folded everything. Even my underwear.
My high-waisted, once-white but now dingy-dishwater, grandma underwear. That’s embarrassing enough.
But Christopher is so stubborn, and I’m realizing that with my good old hiss-and-flex-the-claws days behind me, what this situation calls for is something we’re just starting to figure out: compromise.
Resting against the door to the apartment, I attempt a casual lean and paste on what I hope is an ingratiating smile. “I propose a deal.”
Christopher arches his eyebrows, resettling the massive duffel’s strap on his shoulder like it’s full of paper products instead of my entire laundered wardrobe. “I’m listening.”
“You may carry my bag inside the apartment.”
His eyebrows lift higher. “And...?”
“And that’s it. You may carry it in, and then you may carry it no further, most definitely not inside my room.”
His eyes narrow. He purses his lips, thinking this over. “Your terms are close to but not quite what I’m looking for. I propose a negotiation.”
“Nope.”
He sighs, shaking his head. “Rookie mistake,” he mutters.
I’m annoyed by that and turn toward the door, about to unlock it when Christopher stops me with a hand gently circling my wrist. “Hey.” His voice is quiet, the brief contentious fire between us doused.
“What is it?” I ask.
He glances toward the door, then back to me. “Is Bea home? If she is, I just want to know what to say when we walk in together.”
I frown. “Would we have to say anything? Couldn’t we just walk in and that’s that?”
“Possibly. Or it might be obvious what we’ve been up to.”
I search his eyes, looking for some clue as to how he feels about that. And then I remind myself that I have a mouth, so I ask him, “And would that be all right, if it was?”
He smiles, slow and satisfied. “Very all right with me.”
I’m nearly dizzy with relief.
“What about you?” he asks, searching my eyes, too.
I nod. “Very all right.”
His smile grows. “Good.”
“We can tell the friends, too,” I blurt.
Christopher smiles his widest yet, eyes sparkling, warm and proud. “I’d like that.”
“Good.” I turn toward the door, focused on the lock, then stop, turning back. “Bea’s actually at work now, so we have the place to ourselves for a bit.”
He arches an eyebrow. “Is that why you were hustling me out the door, so you could sneak in here and avoid the walk of shame with me?”
“I was hustling you out the door because I wasn’t sure ifyou’dwant them to know. I wanted to give you an out and not have them be here when we were.”
He glares at me, folding his arms across his chest. “Kate, I’d shout from the tallest skyscraper in this city what you mean to me, if you’d let me.”
