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Addison
“You have way too much stuff.”
Cruz’s boxes are scattered all over our unfurnished apartment. For someone who lived in a dorm room, he sure has a lot of things. My hands reach into a box labeledstuff.I pull out a PlayStation remote, pair of socks, and three empty bottles of deodorant.
“This ain’t all of it,” he retorts.
“You mean there’s more?”
He keeps quiet while tearing the tape off another box also labeled stuff. Whatever is inside, he doesn’t seem interested.
“So, we’re cool, right?”
“Elaborate,” I say flatly.
“With the other night. I mean, I texted you, and you never responded.”
Inside the next box are all of Cruz’s shoes. Sneakers and more sneakers—Nike, Adidas, and Jordans. The box itself is half empty, which leads me to believe his packing skills are less than par.
“Yes, we’re cool,” I tell him, leaving out the part of going to Millie’s to gain a female perspective on life. “I was annoyed, but you know me, give me space, and I’ll come around.”
The conversation ends there as we unpack in silence.
The apartment I was staying in was completely furnished. So, for now, all we have are mattresses. The actual bed frames we ordered were supposed to be delivered this morning, along with a new sofa and refrigerator. However, something happened with the truck breaking down, so our first night will be without those necessities.
Cruz brought his jumbo-sized flatscreen television, which benefits him since I never watch television anymore. When I do watch documentaries, it’s usually on my phone or laptop.
And no surprises, Dad offered to find us a furnished place again and even tried to pay for it. The one thing both Cruz and I have in common—we’re stubborn and want to do things for ourselves.
Cruz’s phone goes off beside me as he walks to the kitchen, only to realize we have no food either. His hangry face warns of grumpy times ahead, but thankfully we have an Indian restaurant downstairs and a few decent restaurants within walking distance.
“Who texted me?” he yells from the kitchen.
I glance at his screen. “Your mom.”
“And?”
I swipe the screen and enter his password, which I knew because it was his so-called lucky number. “She’s inviting you for dinner tonight.”
Cruz walks back in with a bottle of water then throws another to me.
“I can use a home-cooked meal, but you’re coming.”
I glance around the room. “But I need to unpack.”
“Do it tomorrow.”
“I need a shower,” I complain, then lift my armpit to see if I smell of sweat from carrying boxes up three flights of stairs. “Then get changed.”
“So, do it,” he drags.
“My toiletries and clothes are still packed.”
Cruz releases a huff. “Okay, how about we make our beds so if we come home late, at least we can crash. I’ve got a meeting with Coach tomorrow, so I want to get my training session completed early.”
“Sounds like a plan. I should be able to unpack a few boxes in the meantime,” I say but then scowl at him. “But for the love of God, can you please move all the shoes you dumped on the floor? One of us will trip on your giant clown-size shoes, and chances are, it’s going to be me.”
With a slight grimace, he walks over to a pile of boxes. “Yes, mother.”
