“Okay, so probably not dirty, then. Were they awful?”
“Only a little. It was actually kind of cool to meet them. Or it would have been, but it turns out they cast both Genesis and Destyny—you know, the wife of that plastic surgeon and then her friend he cheated on her with?”
“Then the friend got divorced from him, too?” Jason asks. He watched about three episodes ofThe Real Housewivesin preparation for this. He said if those were any indication, this knock-off show will be about women getting in slap fights and freaking out over bugs and the lack of a nail salon. I have a feeling he learned everything he needed to know from those episodes.
“Yes,” I tell him. “He left Destyny for some twenty-one-year-old model.”
“Of course he did.” Jason unzips the tent and climbs inside, and I follow him. I need to go find Rich and get a copy of the schedule so Jason and I can start figuring out exactly where we’re going to have the Not-Wives climb and on which days. Once we have that decided, I can get the equipment sorted so we will be sure to have all the appropriate pieces of equipment at all the appropriate moments. But just thinking about all that is making my blood pressure rise, and there is no better stress relief than curling up under Jason’s arm and taking deep breaths.
And maybe other things with Jason that involve breathing hard. He stretches out in the tent—we have our two-person sleeping bag stretched diagonally so that he has enough space—and I curl up beside him.
“Are you worried about how the show is going to go?” Jason asks.
I’m more worried about the things I know we need to discuss, but the show certainly makes the list. “A little. But I think we’re prepared.”
“To teach clueless women with lots of disposable income how to mountain climb? Yeah. I think we got it covered.” He strokes my hair with his hand absently, and I close my eyes.
“I was actually just thinking about what I want to do when we get back,” I say carefully.
“Yeah?” Jason says. He sounds surprised, like he hasn’t given this much thought, and he probably hasn’t. He’s always more focused on what’s happening right in front of him than what’s happening in the future. It’s usually a good thing—he’s much better than I am at being present in the moment.
It’s less good when the future is the exact thing I want to talk about.
“Yeah,” I say.
Jason props himself up on his elbow, looking down at me expectantly.
For a moment, I consider playing it off. I could tell him I’m craving a Burritozilla fromTaco Pete’s, and he would agree to hit the place up with me first thing when we get back, and that would be the end of it.
But then I’ll have to stress about this until I do ask. If he’s just not ready yet, or much worse, if he doesn’t really want this at all anymore, that’s something I need to know.
It will hurt like hell, but at least I won’t have to wonder anymore.
“Yeah,” I say. “I was wondering if you thought we should move in together after this show is done.”
“Oh,” Jason says. He blinks at me for a moment, like this was not at all what he was thinking. “Yeah, sure.”
I stare at him as he keeps going.
“Do you really want to? My apartment is a mess.”
I’m not totally hearing anything else he says, because my brain is still stuck on his initial reaction.
Did my boyfriend just say “oh, yeah, sure” when I asked him to move in with me?
Last year, when I surprised him with tickets to Hawaii for his birthday, he yelled “Hell yeah!” and grinned and gave me this huge kiss.Then we spent the night online checking out the resort and nearby hikes and “Holy shit, look at that zip-line!” We did some other fun things that night, too.
I get that moving in with me isn’t a Hawaiian vacation. We spend most of our time together anyway, so it wouldn’t be that new.
But it should have warranted more of a reaction thanthat, shouldn’t it? Even if it’s not super different from how we are now, there’s an extra level of intimacy that comes with living together. From having a place that isn’t mine or his, butours.
Hell, he should have been excited about the fact that he wouldn’t have to drive all the way back to his place every time he’s staying over at mine and realizes he forgot some piece of climbing equipment he needs the next day. And if he’snot, then he should admit that, instead of moving forward with a relationship he’s no longer invested in and consigning us both to a life lived in dust bags.
He’s still watching me, like he’s expecting a response to the last thing he said—something about the messiness of his apartment.
“I know your place is messy,” I say. “I’m there all the time.”
He shrugs. “Okay, sure. If you want.”
