“Would be something good for my list.” I laugh.
“No,” Dax deadpans. “I want you to stay boring if it means you don’t get arrested.”
Grabbing one of the boxes we brought in, I start piling clothes in it. I don’t care that they’re a mess. I just want to get out of here.
“Fine. No jail time. But I’m selling the jewelry he gave me. Is that fair?”
He nods. “More than fair.”
Dax and I sort through the mess I made—something that made it harder in hindsight to go through everything—and get all of my clothes into three of the boxes. A few pairs of shoes take up box number four, with a few knickknacks, jewelry, and picture frames filling the last box. They’re all piled onto my purple chair that now sits in the middle of the messy room.
“Is it pathetic that all of my worldly possession can fit into five boxes?”
Dax smiles. “Technically your chair doesn’t fit in a box.”
“Stop it.” I swat at his chest.
“Hey. You’ll get all of your furniture when you move into your new place and can decorate however you want.”
“Think I should take the stone statue?” I laugh.
“Only if you plan on destroying it to use in your jewelry.”
That pulls more laughter out of me. “I don’t think I could pay people to buy stuff with that god-awful stone in it.”
Dax looks around as we carry the boxes downstairs. “He really is full of himself.”
Photos of Duncan line the walls. Photos of him playing hockey. Various sponsor photoshoots. Ones from before he was dropped after it came out he was sleeping with the coach’s wife.
We weren’t together at that point. One of the longer stretches we were broken up. But he said he didn’t know the woman he was sleeping with was married.
God. I feel like such an idiot for having taken him back.
It takes us two trips to get everything in the back of the truck before we head back to Dax’s house.
A house that I love. With a wooden exterior painted blue and white, the front porch and overhead balcony are decorated with various flowerpots. My doing, to make it more welcoming.
All the walls are painted a light gray with soft rugs on top of the refinished hardwood floors. Every bit of Dax’s house is what it should be.
Soft.
Warm.
Open.
It’s perfect, I think as we’re pulling into the three-car garage.
“Want to leave everything in here?” Dax asks, turning the truck off.
“Sounds good to me.” I unbuckle my seatbelt and hop out. “Want me to order pizza?”
“I can get it,” Dax says.
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. You’re helping me move. It’s the least I can do.”
“As long as you get?—”
“Thai chicken,” I finish. “I know. With breadsticks and cheese sauce.”
