Move in together?
Move in…together?
You know when you say something enough times and it starts to sound wrong? That’s what’s happening inside my head with the question Nic just asked. The more I dig for an answer, the more uncomfortable I become.
I could chalk that up to not living with a romantic partner since Billy and I tried it. That was over a decade ago, and it didn’t end well. Now, I’m in my forties. My daughter is a teenager. My belongings take up exactly as much space as I let them, and they’re in the exact right places.
Nic’s still looking at me with pleading eyes, and I realize I haven’t spoken in a long time. “You want to move in together?” Repeat the question. Hope he misspoke. It’s not a great plan, but it’s all I’ve got.
“Yeah, don’t you think we’re ready?” He sounds so certain.Howis he so certain?
“Um,” I stammer, “I mean, there’s still a lot we don’t know about each other.” Like, where does he cut his toenails? If the answer is not, “In the bathroom over a towel that I immediately empty into the tiny steel trash bin,” could I live with that? Another is, where does he store his granola bars with the powdered brain tissue? And how much does Dr. Yates send him each time? Will I have to empty out an entire cabinet for them? What I finally say is, “I’m not sure,” because I’m not, and I don’t want to lie to him.
I just said I love you, for fuck’s sake. That’s a big deal, considering how much I hate men and how ready I was to die alone. Can’t we put the brakes on and savor one big step at a time?
He moves off me and crawls up the bed until we’re side by side. “You’re not sure? Really?”
Words are escaping me at the moment, so I nod.
He scratches the hair on his chin. “What about the hangers?” he asks, gesturing toward the closet. “I stay here all the time. I basically already live here.”
“Uh, hard disagree,” I reply, surprised he’d make that leap. “Sleeping here and living here are two very different things.” A memory wiggles its way to the front of my mind. “Besides, youhaven’t even told me the stuff about your past. The stuff that only Gemma knows.”
It could be seen as a low blow. I’m not trying to trigger his past trauma, but if we’re going to have this discussion, really consider moving in together, I deserve to know him as well as Gemma does, don’t I?
He pushes the sheets off his body and sits on the edge of the bed, reaching for his pants. “I don’t want to get into that right now.”
It feels like he’s proving my point. “See? How are we supposed to take a huge step like this when you don’t even trust me enough to share that with me?”
“I shouldn’t have to talk about that part of my life. With you or anyone else.”
I’d argue that any subject cloaked in this much visceral pain is the thing that needs to be talked about the most. Maybe not with me, but someone. Not Gemma. A professional of some kind.
Not that I can say any of that to him now. He wouldn’t be receptive to it.
This isn’t just about me, though. “Forgive me for wanting to know everything about the person who will live under the same roof as my daughter. I have a duty to protect her, Nic. I don’t know why you think I’d love you any less if you told me the truth, but not telling me makes me imagine the worst.”
He pulls his t-shirt over his head and wipes his cheek. “I understand,” he says, his voice shaking. “I really do.”
Then the panic sets in. The finality in his tone, the sight of him fully dressed. He’s leaving, isn’t he?
Men always leave.
My mother warned me, didn’t she?
There’s a reason that memory stands out among the rest, right? Why I can see it so clearly, decades later? Either I wantedto believe she was too smart to ever be wrong, or life repeatedly confirmed the accuracy of her assumption.
They all leave eventually.
They certainly always have. Every situationship, every boyfriend, every casual hookup––they all ended the same way. Not with me pursuing the breakup. Billy is the only exception, but that was after dozens of prior breakups and even more final straws. The time I ended things, it was already long over.
“I don’t want you to leave,” I beg Nic, wrapping the top sheet around me and coming to stand in front of him. “We were just saying I love you, fucking, what, five minutes ago? Come. Come back to bed.” Can’t we press pause on this whole discussion? Table it until we know more about each other? Why does this feel like it has irrevocably changed what we have?
He doesn’t say anything, so I keep talking. Maybe if I keep telling him how much I love him, that heartbreak will fade from his eyes. “Just give me time. Please. I want us to be on the same page before moving forward. That’s all.”
“Okay.” His voice breaks halfway through that word, and I wonder if there’s any truth in it. He pulls me against his chest, but his arms are loose around me, and there’s a stiffness in his posture that I don’t recognize. “I’m going to head home,” he says after he presses a quick kiss to my hair.
Tears start pouring out of me. “I don’t want this to end. Why does it feel like it’s ending?”
