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She goes quiet again, leaving my side and walking to the shelves filled with pictures. I already had a few frames around the room of family, but now there are more—mostly of the two of us.
“Where did these come from?” She picks one up, running her finger over the glass.
“Everyone. Grace was in charge of that project. She collected, framed, and displayed.”
“I didn’t know some of these existed,” she says quietly.
“I didn’t either until last night when I got you into bed and had a chance to admire her work.”
“They really went all out.” She places the frame back on the shelf and picks up another.
“More are coming,”
“Are you building a shrine?”
“There’s a lot of space.”
“I can’t look at myself that much.”
“I’ll take some to my office.”
“Let me amend; even you can’t look at me that much.”
“I disagree. I can’t get enough of you.”
Her lips twitch, and she replaces the picture, scanning the room again. I remain quiet, bracing for her reaction. I didn’t fuck around, moving her in without her knowledge.
“I’m freaking out,” she admits.
“I’d be surprised if you weren’t.”
“No, you don’t understand. Something has happened to me. I’m standing here trying my best not to cry.” Her eyes begin to glisten, and I step into her space, circling her waist.
“Why do you want to cry?”
“I don’t know! Ever since those two weeping wimpsters came over and made me purge my soul, I’ve been different.”
“There’s nothing wrong with showing your feelings.”
“Why aren’t you freaking?”
“I kinda like seeing this softer side.”
Her eyes flame, and the blood drains from her face. “Soft? I’m not soft!” she shouts. “I’m independent, mouthy, and the tell-it-like-it-is girl. People rely on me to keep things real. I’m reserved with my emotions. There’s nothing wrong with crying. I cried when my best friend slammed into a barricade because a raging bitch tried to kill her. I cry when we lose patients because I’m not heartless, and it hurts like hell. I cry when my boyfriend breaks my heart into a billion pieces. None of those things are happening right now. This urge to burst into tears means something is wrong with me.”
“There’s nothing wrong with you.” I fight my grin.
“Of course, you’d think that. You love this girly shit. You let me get sentimental last night with our friends.” She scrunches her nose, crinkles her brows, and shivers in disgust. “I was sappy, and not any sappy, the gross kind of sappy. It was shameful!”
“I didn’t let you do anything. You swung around with an agenda and let it fly. It was sweet.”
She sucks in a breath, her eyes going wide with horror. “The old Claire would never do that. The old me would be livid with you for doing all this behind my back. You snuck into my home—”
“Bizzy and I have keys. There was no sneaking.”
“Whatever,” she rolls her eyes, “you made life-changing decisions, moving most of my essentials into your place when I’ve had no more than a toothbrush here forever. You built me a custom closet and hung my clothes in it, arranged movers for next week, and had our friends decorate your living room with a montage of our relationship through pictures. It’s overwhelming. And, instead of screaming my head off, I’m fighting the emotional outburst clawing its way up my throat.”
I cradle her face in my hand, tilting her chin so she can’t look away. “There’s a lot to break down here, but let’s start with the toothbrush. When I lost you and realized you only had a toothbrush here, it became a huge fucking problem with me. I expected some resistance; that’s why I compromised by bringing the essentials now and working on the other stuff together. Luckily, we’re not having a knock-down drag-out over my life-changing decisions since you already agreed. I sped up the process, knowing I wasn’t taking no for an answer. The closet was a present, from me to you, to show how much I want your things in there. The pictures may be a montage of our relationship, but they represent many incredible memories. Every one of those images is seared in my brain, but I wanted them on display to remember them every time I walk into this ho
