“You’re sweating a lot.”
“Because I’m wearing clothes, Gray.”
I smirk at him over the back of the loveseat as we maneuver it down the steps.I mean, a bro-cut tee, shorty shorts, and the absolute sluttiest socks I could find are still clothes.But I know what he meant.
Then, back to the boxes.
If you asked me, I never would have said that Darnell was a hoarder.And I’d moved all my stuff out after we’d broken up.But there is alotof shit, and even though we start at six, we aren’t done until almost noon, and by then I’m as dirty, sweaty, and exhausted as Darnell.
I sit on the truck’s tailgate, cooling down in the spring breeze, while Darnell does a final walkthrough of the house.When he comes back, he looks at me, and then he does that thing he does where he puts his hands on his hips.
I flap the bottom of my tee to get some cool air on my skin.
He rolls his eyes.
I stretch, arms behind my head.I’ve got great pits.
“Good God, Gray.”
For some reason, it makes me laugh.
“Do you ever stop?”he asks.
“Just keeping in practice.”
“Uh huh.”He’s still looking at me, though.And then he says, “What’s wrong?”
“What?”
“You’ve been quiet all morning.You haven’t talked about some new porn star you found.You haven’t bragged about some eighteen-year-old you did a pile-drive on.You haven’t even mentioned any random boners.”
“Dude!”
He smiles.
It hasn’t always been easy like this.For a long time after the breakup, we didn’t see each other.For a long time, he hated me.I guess he had a right to hate me.I sure hated myself.But then one day, Darnell texted me out of the blue and wanted to get coffee, and let me tell you, that sent me into crazy-motherfucker overdrive.When I finally got my shit together enough to, you know, contemplate a face-to-face conversation, it went a lot better than I thought.I mean, it wasn’t easy.But he was working on some stuff.And I wasdefinitelyworking on some stuff.And it was nice, seeing him again.Seeing that he was working on being happy.
The bullshit part they don’t tell you about patching things up with your ex, though, is that then you have to help him move if he asks.
“Spill it,” Darnell says.
So, I tell him about WISP and the colossal thunderfuck that’s coming my way.And when I finish, I say, “That’s why I think you should marry me and keep the house.”
“Okay,” Darnell says.“I’m going to ignore that.”
“Bro, it’s perfect.This house is, like, totally sensible and practical and shit.It’s like the fucking definition of a boner-killer.Donors would see this place and fuckingquiver.”
“That house is not a boner-killer.”
“And you’d be like this butch, manly, stalwart presence to make sure nothing went wrong, you know?You could even tell them you’d spank me if I dipped into the piggy bank.”
“What’s the scenario here?Who are these donors?”
“I don’t know, bro.The main one, Fields, he sounds like a fucking lunatic.He wants a fucking family man?Dude, youknowmy family was super fucked up.”
He looks at me some more.Then he sits on the tailgate.The truck settles on its suspension under the new weight, and then it’s quiet again.I fan myself with my shirt some more, staring off down the street.The daffodils are out in Mrs.Swenka’s yard, and it looks like somebody jumped the curb down the street and took out a mailbox.
“I feel like I shouldn’t have to say this,” Darnell says, “but I’m not marrying you.”
