Saturdays are now our laundry day, and yes, it’s exactly as it sounds. We do laundry together, and it’s entirely my fault. The first Saturday we didn’t have plans, I called her to find out what she was up to. I didn’t know why, but the idea of not seeingher for a whole day didn’t sit right with me. That should have sent off warning bells, and I’m sure it did, but like I had grown accustomed to doing, I ignored them completely.
“Hello,” she answered with a yawn, and I mentally placed her still in bed.
“What are you doing today?” I asked, my voice still groggy with sleep. It was barely 8 a.m. I was still in bed myself, a crumpled navy sheet barely covering me, but I couldn’t help it. I wanted to hear her voice before I heard anyone else’s.
“What day is it?” she asked sleepily.
“Saturday.”
“Hmm,” she hummed. “It’s laundry day.”
“That’s funny,” I said, looking over at my pile of neatly folded clean clothes. “For me, too.”
“Hilarious,” she said, her tone dripping with sarcasm.
“Wanna do laundry together?”
“Mmm, no. That seems intimate.”
My laugh came out rough. “Explain to me how laundry is intimate.”
“We’d see each other’s underwear.”
“I think context matters here.”
She was quiet for a moment, and I wondered if I’d won her over. “Yeah, still no.”
“Fine,” I huffed, working harder to persuade her. “I won’t bring my underwear.” Truthfully, I didn’t have anything to bring. Everything I owned was already washed, dried, and waiting to be put away. But she didn’t need to know that.
“I’m not worried about seeingyourunderwear. I don’t want you seeingmine.”
“Then I’ll close my eyes.”
I could almost hear her smilethen.
“Fine,” she caved.
I stretched with a loud breath to hide my excitement. “See you in an hour?”
“Bring coffee,” was all she said.
And that’s how Saturday became laundry day.
Sundays were my favorite, though. She had an early shift at the café every week, but after, she was always down for anything. Sitting on the couch and watching football, grabbing a slice of pizza, or ordering in Chinese. Sometimes when we hung out, we didn’t even talk. We just sat there in shared company, and it was…nice.
The consistency of it all didn’t give me enough time to notice how natural it felt to be around her. Like when the sun shines for so long, you forget the storm you endured to reach it. There was never enough space between days to notice her absence—or how much it would affect me when she wasn’t there.
Last week, an older woman stopped at our café table and smiled like she’d stumbled upon something she couldn’t unsee. “You two make such a beautiful couple,” she told us.
Alana’s cheeks flushed, and her shoulders stiffened. I smiled and went with it.
“Why, thank you, ma’am. That’s so kind of you to say.” I slid an arm around Alana and gave her my best doting-boyfriend grin. “It’s been what, six months, baby?”
Her lips twitched, her eyes sparking with the kind of mischief I was hoping for. “Seven,” she corrected softly. “And we’ve never been happier.”
Something in my chest twisted then. The woman cooed, said something about young love being beautiful and sacred. The words lodged under my ribs, sharp and heavy. Because for a second, I almost believed it—the idea that it could be real, that I could have this happy little life.
Thatthought scared the living hell out of me.
