“I will throw you to them,” he says. “If it comes to it.”
“Only if you can catch me first.”
CHAPTER 17
Whenwegothomefrom our beach walk, Bo took a call in his room while I got ready to go out. He was still on the phone when I left with Sarah, on a mission to get new art for my room and some lunch. And of course, because it’s thrifting, I found what I was looking forandmany things I hadn’t known I needed.
Including a very cute rainbow stacking puzzle for the baby and a few bits and pieces for the living room’s mantel. Some framed watercolour art, a few pottery candle holders, some pretty candlesforthose holders, and one small turquoise shell frame that perfectly fits our ultrasound photo. That, I put front and centre above the vacant fireplace.
Bo didn’t seem to mind the new additions. When I placed the final item and stepped back to admire the mantel, I turned to find him standing behind me. He was leaned up on the wall, as he seems to be often, and smiling fondly. Not at me, but at that little photo in its new spot.
I figured it would be good to have the photo out somewhere. A reminder ofwhywe’re doing this.
Afterward, I took the pile of comic books Bo had left out for me to my room and read for a few hours. And now, I’m about six comic books deep out of eight, and my stomach has informed me that it is time for dinner. Thus, began my spiral.
Sure, dinnersoundssimple enough, but it is far from it. This is our first dinner under the same roof, and it seems to me that we’d be setting some sort of precedent with how tonight plays out. I have no idea what Bo does for meals. I’ve only ever seen the guy eat baked goods, crackers, or chips.
Does he only eat beige and brown food? Is he offended by vegetables? Does he like spicy food? What allergies does he have? Will I accidentally kill him if I use eggs, soy, nuts, or shellfish?
And is it presumptuous to cook for us both?Orwould it be rude to just cook for myself? When does he normally eat dinner? Is it already too late? Too early? I haven’t left my room since four, so thereisthe possibility that he’s already eaten by now. Though I don’t smell anything wafting from the kitchen, and my sense of smell since getting pregnant isnojoke. I’m like a bloodhound these days. People could use me to solve crimes. Decade old unsolved cold cases.
If Bodideat without me, would I be offended? I don’t mind if we do our own thing, but we should probably establish what our routine will be, right?
Then, there’s also the matter of how wegetthe foodpriorto cooking. Do we grocery shop together? Separately? What’s most economical? Will our system change when I’m on parental leave and my income is slashed in half?
“Win?” Bo calls through my door, knocking twice in quick succession.
“Hmm? Yeah?” I say, trying to present myself as calm. It’s unconvincing.
“Are you hungry? I made soup,” he replies, opening the door a crack and taking a step inside.
I pull my hair off my neck and swallow, feeling a hot flush across my chest and neck. This is all too much. There’s too much we haven’t discussed. Expectations I don’t know about and will inevitably fail. Jackhatedwhen I didn’t have dinner ready when he got home. He was strange like that… performing long-winded monologues about howsocietywas set to work against women while continuously making me feel like I had to fulfil certain roles and expectations in our home. Everything about Jack was some sort of performance.
Is that what this is? Bo making soup? Is this some sort of… act?
“You okay?” Bo asks, his eyes bouncing around my face, his hand tight around the top of my door.
I release my lip from between my teeth as my knee begins bouncing. “Do you have any allergies?” I ask.
“No.” Bo walks farther into the room, presses his shoulder against the wall next to my dresser, and crosses his arms. “What about you?”
“No. Do you normally cook or order in? What time do you eat? About now?”
“I like to cook, but I’m not any sort of chef. I normally eat around six since I finish work at five. Are you okay? You seem a little—”
“I feel like I’m unravelling, maybe… a tiny bit. I appreciate you cooking, obviously, but I just don’t know what the expectations are moving forward. I guess it’s been a while since I lived with someone…”
Bo nods thoughtfully, his eyes holding on the lamp on the bedside table. “This seems like the same spiral I was having about an hour ago.” He points to the bed, and I nod, shuffling over so he can sit next to me. “I don’t want to overstep,” Bo says, resting his elbows on his knees and clasping his hands between his open legs. “If you want to share this space like roommates—buy our own food, cook for ourselves, share some basic necessities, split costs down the middle—that’s cool with me. But I think a different arrangement would make more sense.”
“Different?” I ask.
“Less separate, I guess. I think I worked out a solution for the bills and money side of things. As far as the household chores go, cooking or whatever else, I think we should take turns.”
“So, like, every other night, I’ll cook dinner?”
“But sometimes you close at the café, right? So why don’t I cook, since my schedule stays the same?”
“Then what do I do?”
