He looks over at me again.
“Or…” I pause, give it a second or two. “You could help me?”
He’s curious now but doesn’t answer.
I clear my throat, but I do it as I inhale, and it makes me cough a little. “I, um. I was thinking. Thinking you could stay here. With me.”
He keeps staring.
“If you want to, that is. But I was hoping…I just thought you’d like it here.”
He looks away, out of a window, pushes up his glasses. “I wanted to get my own place.”
“Sure, yeah.” I nod at him like that makes sense, hide my disappointment. “Of course. And you should. It’s good to live on your own.”
I had tried to prepare myself for an answer that wasn’t a resounding and eager yes. I didn’t necessarily think he’d be insulted or furious with me. But I’d hoped. Like anyone would.
He slides his foot over to mine, nudges the toe of my boot with his sneaker. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course, pal.” I nudge back. “Of course you can think about it.”
We spend the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon unloading and arranging. He helps me unpack the boxes with the more crucial items, get the bed made up, and put some food in the cupboards.
Everything we brought from my apartment fits inside nicely. I’d tried to be discerning, take measurements, and be sure. I didn’t want to invite Paul into a place that was cluttered or completely falling apart. I probably should have fixed it up better before I showed him. That was my original plan. But I like having him here, helping. And after a while he takes off his coat and takes a seat.
I’d bought a wood-burning stove and had it installed a few weeks ago. I wanted to show him I’d prepared for the cold. I put some wood in it and get it going. It’s already getting dark outside, despite it only being four-thirty. I heat a coffee pot on the stove and make us each a mug. Paul sits on my bed, and I take a seat in one of the armchairs.
“It looks good in here,” he says. “With all your stuff. It looks better.”
I nod and light up a smoke.
“What’s going to happen to your apartment?”
“I paid the rest of the lease off. I’m guessing they’ll rent it again.”
He looks thoughtful. “Was the rent expensive?”
I take a drag, chuckle. “You can find somewhere better than that place, pal.”
He shrugs, smiles. “Maybe, but it would be nice to be close to my aunt.” He looks at me carefully, takes a sip of his coffee. “I’ve been paying her. For bills and stuff.”
“That’s good.”
“She didn’t want me to, but I wanted to help.”
“I see.”
He gets quiet then, looking down at his lap. The conversation rolls to a stop, the discomfort between us beginning to grow. We’d avoided it this whole time, but now it’s here and it’s overbearing.
After a minute or so he says, “I really missed you.”
It drops on me like a boulder. I never know when I need to hear something until I actually hear it. My hand shakes as I bring the cigarette to my lips.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” he says, plain and simple. It’s the most obvious thing. Clear as a bell.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I say, far from plain and definitely not-so-simple.
“But you don’t need to be sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…I thought I wouldn’t see you again. I was trying to get used to it. And now you’re here, and we’re here, and—”
