by Anna Martin
I, too, envelop Lexi in a warm hug and obligingly pat her tummy, which is still impossibly flat, although she claims a bump is starting to poke out.
“I’ll take your word for it,” I tell her with a smile. We force her to sit down and not lift a finger to help as Chris, John, and I haul their boxes in from the trailer, although almost immediately she starts to sort things by where she wants them to go.
When the others go back down again for the last load of boxes, I catch Lexi standing in the doorway to my office. The room that used to be my office. She has a little smile on her face as she sees me watching.
“Your nursery?” I ask, and she nods.
“I don’t think I’ve said thank you yet for letting us have the place. And at such a reasonable rate.”
“It’s my pleasure,” I say genuinely. “Chris and I were never going to stay here forever. I’m just glad it meant you could come back to Boston.”
She tucks red curls back behind her ear, then hugs me again. “You’re so perfect for him.”
“I know,” I whisper. “But he’s so perfect for me, too.”
John agrees to load up my old desk and take it across town in their trailer, which is a blessing because I hadn’t quite worked out how I’m going to move it, and Lexi clearly won’t need it if she’s turning the room into a nursery.
We follow in my car, Chris holding Flea on his lap, who I swear is sulking at being locked up and refuses to listen to my promises to let him out just as soon as we can.
“Just think, Fleabag,” Chris says to him through the bars of the cat box. “No more coming in and out through a window anymore. You get a real cat flap.”
“Mmrow.”
“I don’t think he’s too impressed,” I say, signalling to turn onto our road.
Of course, getting my antique desk up several flights of stairs, through the front door, down the hall, and into my office is about as easy as the entire operation sounds. When it’s done I’m sweating. But that’s it. The last piece moved in.
We thank John, lock the front door, and let Flea out to explore his new house.
Chris sighs heavily. “What first?”
Books, the little selfish voice in my head demands. Unpack and arrange all your books.
“Bed,” I say—surprising myself.
Chris grins impishly, as if he knew I was going to say something else and stopped myself.
“The frame and the mattress are already here,” he says. “We just need to assemble it.”
“Sheets?”
“Are in the box marked ‘sheets’. You should know, you packed them,” Chris says, taking my hand to drag me down the hallway. The bed was the only thing I managed to direct to the correct location when the delivery people were here. I didn’t much fancy having to drag it back down the stairs again.
Much to Luisa’s amusement, on our epic shopping trip, Chris and I chose another small double bed, the same size as the one in my old flat. I claimed, at the time, that this was because it was easier to keep the same sheets that I already had rather than having to replace them all with new. She saw right through me.
I’m not surprised that when we’re assembling the thing, we end up in a debate (not an argument, definitely not an argument) about the position of the furniture in the room. Unfortunately, when we viewed the apartment for the first time, this room was completely bare, so we had no guide on how best to place things.
I want it on the wall facing the window so we can watch the sun rise every morning.
Chris wants it on the wall facing the door so he can protect me from scary intruders.
Yeah, right.
Of course, this leads to us needing to locate all the other furniture for the room and put that in place as well, so we can work out where’s best for everything to go. I don’t want to argue with him, I desperately don’t, but I can’t help but think that if we’re going to have this debate in every room we come to, we’re going to need a lot more than the long weekend we’ve planned to get everything unpacked.
When I give in to him, Chris only throws another strop.
“What?” I demand.
“I don’t want you to let me get my way because you love me, I want you to let me get my way because I’m right.”
“Oh, fuck’s sake,” I mutter, sitting down on the edge of the bed (that’s facing the door) and rub my hands over my face.
He somehow manages to squeeze his way onto my lap between my elbows and knees and wraps his arms around my neck.
“We have a house together,” he whispers.
“A flat,” I correct.
“An apartment,” he contradicts.
I flick his ear.
“Rob?”
“Hmm?”
“Can we have a bath?”
“Don’t see why not.”
There’s a big tub in the bathroom as well as a standing shower unit, and for the size of the flat, it’s larger than one would expect, which is good. I like a big bathroom.
From somewhere, God only knows where, Chris locates a bottle of shower gel, which will have to do in place of bath bubbles because we don’t have any. I’m aware not to over-fill the bath since two of us are going to be getting in it and, you know, Archimedes’ principle of displacement.
I get in first, and Chris naturally settles in front of me with his back to my chest. I idly think that the light in here is too dim and I’ll need to replace it to make sure I don’t cut myself shaving in the mornings, especially during the winter. My hands trail up and down Chris’s arms and over his chest as our feet and legs twine together. For once he seems to be completely relaxed, not buzzing about something or another or hyped up on caffeine. Usually the only times he’s like this are after we’ve had sex—or when he’s asleep. I carefully take one of his hands—his left one—between both of mine and start to massage his long fingers.
There are calluses from years of gripping drumsticks, and I rub them gently, surprised at the intimacy of this act. Chris drops his head back to my shoulder and hums in deep, deep contentment.
“Another first,” he murmurs.
“What was that?”
“I’ve never done this before.”
“Taking a bath with someone?”
“Yeah. It’s nice.” I slipped his silver ring off his right hand and put it on his left thumb for safekeeping while I turned my massage to his other hand.
“Will you fuck me later?” I ask suddenly.
As Chris tilts his head back to my shoulder, I can feel the blush creeping up the side of my neck. Outbursts are usually his domain, not mine.
“Yeah,” he says, sounding amused. “Of course. Any reason in particular? Or just christening the new bed?”
“Bit of both,” I say and attempt a nonchalant shrug.
“You’re strange.”
There’s a sentiment I can agree with.
Unpacking, as I predicted, takes a good three days to do, and even then we don’t get everything done. My initial confusion quickly turns to annoyance as I realise that I’m not going mad, and yes, Chris is following me around and rearranging stuff. It takes a lot of self-control not to snap at him. I’ve lived alone for far too long and have had everything just the way I like it, which admittedly is not the same way things would make sense to other people.
As I carry another box of books destined for my office down from the lounge, I almost trip over Chris sitting on the bottom stair. He’s talking on his phone rapidly to someone and gesticulating wildly with his free hand. I manoeuvre the box around him, and he grins up at me impishly. He’s turned me into such a sap.
In my office, I set the box down on my desk and start to methodically stack books on shelves. The task is calming, and I hum to myself as I do it.
“Hey,” Chris says, leaning on the door frame.
“What’s got you grinning like a Cheshire cat?” I demand as he meanders over for a kiss.
“That was my brother.”
“Which one?”
&nbs
p; “Drew.”
“The one with the kids?” I ask. My box is nearly empty now, so I lay the last few books on the shelf. They’ll get propped up with the next one.
“No, Jacob has the kids.” When I turn back, he’s sitting in my desk chair, still grinning away at me. “Drew is the one who is going to send The Box up here.”
I take the bait. “The box of what?”
“Not the box, The Box,” he corrects, and the second time I hear the capital letters.
“Okay, The Box of what?”
“Porn,” he says delightedly. I roll my eyes and disassemble my very standard box, taking it back upstairs for the next one. Chris follows me.
“I find it hard to believe you have no porn with you at all,” I say.
“Well, I do,” he concedes. “But The Box is epic. It’s not just porn, really. There’s butt plugs and lube and this gorgeous, massive bright-red dildo….”
His sigh, when it comes, is one of deepest longing.
“I had no idea you were such a little pervert.” I did, of course.
“Yes you did.” He knows me too well.
He’s still following me as I take the next box down, and I don’t realise until we’re back in the office that he’s brought the last one with him.
“Give me kisses,” he demands. I’m happy to oblige him. “I’ve got something else to tell you.”
“Go on.”
“I’ve got a job. A proper, regular job. It’s not full-time hours or anything, but it’s good.”
I can’t for the life of me figure out why the box of porn was more important than this, but I’ve long stopped questioning anything to do with Chris and sex.
“That’s fantastic,” I tell him. “Where is it?”
“At the ballet,” he says.
“The Boston ballet?”
“Yeah. They use a drummer instead of a pianist for a lot of their rehearsals, especially for the contemporary crap. But for the big classical numbers as well because it’s easier to keep in time with a drummer than some floaty music, especially when they’re learning new pieces.”
“How did you get that on a contract?”
“I told them I was happy to take the job but I needed at least a six-month deal because I want to stay in Boston and I can’t unless I have something more secure.”
“And they bought that?”
“I can be very persuasive when I need to be, Professor.”
“Don’t I know it,” I mutter under my breath. He throws a pencil at my back, which Flea immediately pounces on. I hadn’t noticed that he was watching our conversation, probably from “his” windowsill.
“So you got six months?”
“Nope.” He pauses, for dramatic effect, I’m sure. “A year.”
“That’s really great. Well done, baby.”
He appears under my arm, insinuating himself into my embrace.
“This could lead to good things, you know?” he says softly. “I could get some good references and be able to play for the bigger orchestras.”
“That would be great. You’re really starting to build your portfolio, you know?”
His smile lights up his face.
“Yeah. That’s the idea.”
“Do you want me to take you out to celebrate?”
“Nah. That’s okay. Do you want help with your books?”
I shudder at the thought. “Thank you, but no.”
“Okay. I’m going to go set up my drums.”
Before he leaves, I kiss him again. Because I can.
I will inevitably rise before Chris in the mornings and wander around the house, making breakfast and getting dressed while he’s still passed out, spread eagle on the bed, leeching whatever warmth is left from the sheets I’ve abandoned. It’s okay. Despite the fact that my job calls for early mornings, I’m much more productive after midday and don’t particularly want to talk to him as soon as I’ve rolled out of bed.
I’m brushing my teeth in the bathroom when he comes in behind me and flips the lid up to use the toilet.
“You didn’t kiss me this morning,” he mumbles, his voice scratchy-rough from sleep.
I spit.
“Hmm?”
“This morning. You didn’t kiss me.”
“Yes, I did.”
I didn’t even know that he knew I did that. Before leaving our little sanctuary of too-small bed and warm skin, I always, always kiss him. Usually on the shoulder, but really, any patch of skin will do. It depends on the position in which he’s sleeping.
He still looks grumpy as he flushes and nudges me out of the way to wash his hands. When he’s done, I angle his face into a minty kiss.
“Promise,” I whisper to him. “Go back to bed, sweetheart.”
He nods and pads out of the bathroom, and I decide he’s probably still at least half-asleep.
By the afternoon he’s clearly forgiven me.
Dropped the bike off for a service, his text reads. Can you pick me up from the studio? Finish at 7. Love yoooooou xxxxx
For some reason this reminds me of Chloe’s “Dad can you pick me up” texts, and I wonder whether to be disturbed or amused. I go with amused. I can vaguely remember him telling me about the service the night before when we were curled up on the sofa, but I was tired and probably drifting.
I text him back in the affirmative.
The night is clear and not quite as dark as last night, indicating our journey toward spring has taken another step. I park the car on a side street and wander up to the front of the ballet company’s rehearsal space, straining my ears for any sound of Chris’s familiar drumming, but I can’t hear it.
When the first few dancers start filtering out through the door, I guess he’ll soon be on his way.
For some reason I can’t place my finger on, he looks subdued as he comes through the doors and heads straight for me, falling into my embrace.
“What’s wrong?” I ask him, my fingers lightly combing through his hair.
“Nothing,” he says, then corrects himself at my glare. “I’ll tell you in a minute. Tell me?”
Now I’m worried. “Tell me” is for bed, for sex, and sometimes for showers. Not the middle of the street on a Tuesday evening.
“I love you,” I tell him and bring him back closer to me. When he searches for my kisses, I give them to him willingly, despite the fact that we’re on the middle of the street on a Tuesday evening, or maybe because of it.
When we break apart, another group passes us, and this time one of the women stops.
“Chris,” she says pleasantly, and I search my brain for a moment to figure out how I know her. “And Professor McKinnon. I’ll admit, I didn’t know the two of you were an item.”
“Celina,” I say, finally placing the woman as someone I met at an AIDS benefit back in December. She’s one of the creative directors at the ballet, if I remember correctly; a tall woman with a soft brown cap of hair. “Nice to see you again.”
“And you.”
“Rob is the reason I came back to Boston,” Chris supplies. “I did some work for Celina before, but it was difficult for me to do anything more because of the band.”
“Well, it seems I should thank you, then,” Celina laughs. “He’s been a great success here. Very popular.”
For some reason this makes Chris look sick. I decide to make our excuses, and we leave.
“What’s up?” I ask as we head back to the car.
“Nothing,” he says absently. I grab his hand. He’s clearly upset about something, and as much as I don’t want to push or pry, I can’t help but feel like it’s my duty to look after him.
“Let’s go for dinner,” I say. Chris looks at me as if I’m mad. I just shrug. “What are you in the mood for?”
“Oh, Rob, I’m not hungry,” he says with a sigh. I grit my teeth and decide to battle it out.
“Please? We don’t get to do this very often.”
He nods, and I sense victory.
Since it’s the clo
sest thing to where I’m parked, I take him to Chili’s. The last—and only—other time we were here, I watched him eat chicken wings like they had just announced a global chicken crisis and this was his only chance to eat it for the rest of ever. My dramatic side is born of having a teenager.