Thankfully (or not), he threw on a T-shirt and changed into some sweatpants before grabbing his cigarettes and going outside to smoke. He was keeping quiet, and I decided to do the same in case he had something pressing on his mind. And he must have, because he couldn’t stop fidgeting once he was back inside. Finally, he turned to face me and asked, “Can we sleep together again?”
“No,” I said, eliciting a shocked reaction. I hurried to correct myself: “I mean, yeah! But this couch is killing my back. If we do it in a regular bed, that’s a different story.”
“Ah.”
He looked down the hall to the room we used to share and considered my offer for a few seconds. Was it too soon? I didn’t mean to pressure him. But then, hewasthe one who had asked. The tension was killing me. I thought he’d never respond, but finally he nodded.
“I’ll need help moving my things.”
“I’m on it!” I yelped, maybe a little too enthusiastically.
“Easy, now,” he said jokingly. “What if I change my mind?”
“Too late, you’re on the hook!”
I crouched and started opening the drawers of the sideboard in the living room where he’d been storing his things. I was shocked to find them almost empty. There were just a couple of sweatshirts and T-shirts andone pair of pants, plus some socks and underwear. I started making fun of him: “Jack, this is pathetic, you’re famous now and you’ve barely got anything to wear. Look at this hoodie! It’s been washed so many times, you can’t even see the logo on it!”
“Sure you can. It’s theKill Billposter. Look, it’s perfectly clear!”
“It’s full of holes, Jack. I don’t even think the Goodwill would take it.”
“I can’t believe I’m hearing this from the girl who used to love to steal my sweatshirts!”
“Yeah, to sleep in, not to go to awards shows and banquets and things like that,” I replied.
Frustrated, I pulled out all the drawers out and dumped them onto the floor. Everything he owned was balled up and in tatters. It reminded me of a crime scene. “Jack, none of this stuff is even folded,” I told him.
“Why should I bother? It’ll just get wrinkled when I wear it anyway!”
I rolled my eyes, grabbed everything I could, and walked off toward the bedroom. When I heard his footsteps behind me, I called back, “Ihopeyou’re not walking in here empty-handed, Jack Ross!”
He stopped and hurried back, fetching his T-shirts and underclothes, and together we sorted everything in front of his dresser. Inside of it was some more of his old clothing—whether it was fit to be worn was another question—like his Pumba sweatshirt and the one with the girl fromPulp Fictionon it. I turned toward the bed and started folding clothes, and when I looked back, I saw him stuffing them in the drawers by the handful.
“What are you doing?” I asked.
“You said I needed to put my stuff away!”
“Not like that, though! For heaven’s sake. Now I know how my sister used to feel when I’d make a mess in our room. Just let me take care of it.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were Sue,” Jack said. I pretended to throw a pair of underwear at his face, and he smiled and jumped back,leaning against the bed, where he alternated between watching me work and playing with his cell phone.
I felt satisfied when I was done, and told him so: “In the end, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared…”
“You’re a neat freak.”
“And you’re a slob. You need some order in your life, not to mention some halfway decent clothes. This is embarrassing.”
“It works for me.”
“What are you going to do when you leave the apartment one day in these rags and they split open out on the street?”
“Why should I care? But whatever, Michelle, I’ll go shopping if that’s what you really want. While we’re at it, we can do all the other fun things eighty-year-olds do. You know, mall-walking, coupon-cutting, all that fun stuff.”
He tried to conceal his grin as I asked, “I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“Nothing.”
“I thought I heard something.”
