"How was Shedd?" I asked.
"Stable. Salinity at 1.025. Ansel is still eating well."
"And your dad?"
He leaned against the kitchen counter. "I told him all the details. What I think about hockey, grad school, and you." I waited for more. "I told him I'm in love with you. He already knew if he'd been listening the last time, but I made it clear."
"What did he say?"
"He said he pushed me." Kieran looked at his hands on the table. "No defense or qualification. Then he said he needs time."
I watched his fingers press back against the counter, the tendons standing out across the backs of his hands. Hands that had held a stick since they were big enough to grip one.
"That's real," I said.
"Yeah." He looked up. "His voice broke. Just once. I've never heard that before."
A father listening to something he hadn't expected to hear about his son, and choosing to stay on the line instead of hanging up. I knew what that cost. I knew what it was worth.
"Your mom?"
"Texted. She said she's proud of me, and she knew before he did. She always knows before he does."
"Are you okay?"
He considered the question with the seriousness it deserved.
"I'm still here," he said.
***
We didn't make a big announcement about moving. We just stopped pretending.
Kieran sold his condo and opted for a larger apartment in my neighborhood. It was enough for two. It had a second bedroom that the realtor called an office and Kieran called a guest room. Now, it held my gear bags and a folding table I'd brought from my old place because I refused to tape sticks on the kitchen counter.
Rook showed up Saturday morning with a truck that looked like it had been borrowed from a cousin who owed him money.It had a scratched bed, and the tailgate had a Blackhawks sticker half-scraped off.
"You two done playing house separately?" he asked, hauling one of my duffels toward the elevator. "Took you long enough."
Pratt followed ten minutes later, carrying a small hard case like it contained a surgical instrument.
Varga arrived twenty minutes after that, out of breath, holding a houseplant. "I brought a gift," he announced. "It's a fern. I named him Fernando. He requires indirect light and verbal encouragement."
"We didn't ask you to bring a plant," I said from the doorway.
"You didn't ask me to bring emotional depth to every locker room interaction either, and yet." Varga set Fernando on the kitchen island with the care of a man placing a centerpiece at a state dinner. "I'm told ferns improve air quality. I'm also told they die if you look at them wrong, so this is either a gesture of love or a test of your commitment. I'll check back in two weeks."
Rook reappeared with another box. Looked at the fern. Looked at Varga. "It's already wilting," Rook said.
"It's adjusting."
Kieran caught my eye across the kitchen. The corner of his mouth pulled upward, barely. Not at the joke. At the fact that these men had showed up on a Saturday morning with a truck and a fern and a hard case, and none of them had asked a single question about why we were moving in together.
They knew. Had known, probably, longer than either of us had been ready to confirm. Knowing hadn't changed anything that mattered.
Pratt set his hard case on the kitchen counter. Unlatched it. Inside was a portable water-testing kit. Lab-grade. Better than anything Kieran used at the aquarium.
"For the fish," Pratt said. Deadpan.
