Epilogue
AARON
“You’re home,” I exclaim as soon as the front door opens. Oliver’s been away for a whole week helping Haskell with part of a book tour. It would’ve been a couple of days, but Oliver insisted on taking the train instead of flying.
I volunteered to go with him, even to hold his hand the whole time, but he said nothing would convince him to fly in a deathtrap.
We’ll work on it.
“If I’d known you’d miss me this much, I’d leave more often.” He laughs as he drops his two suitcases in the entryway.
Two massive suitcases for a week. Seriously.
“Don’t. You. Dare.”
Oliver officially moved in a few weeks ago. The combining of things has been chaotic at best. We’re very different people when it comes to housekeeping and decorations. It means a lot of compromise all the way around.
Worth it to know that whatever time I come home, I’m coming home to him. We converted my office into his since he works from home. I’m letting that space be completely his, clutter and all. The rest of it, we’re working on. Slowly, but we’re working on it.
“I have something to show you.” I grab his hand and lead him into the living room.
“Is it dirty? Please say it’s dirty. Video call sex is not the same thing.”
I can’t help but chuckle. This surprise has nothing to do with the bedroom, but it’s a good idea for future surprises. Our growing collection of sex toys has certainly kept me guessing. I don’t need any of that to feel good with Oliver, but it’s nice to spice things up occasionally.
“No, but look at the couch.”
“Oh my God. You finished it?”
“I did. Got the last few rows in this morning before I went to work.” Oliver was far more successful at running than I was at crocheting.
I can’t say he didn’t warn me to pick something simpler and smaller for my first project.
Getting the hundreds of rows done on this took far more effort than I had hoped.
Much of it was done in fits and starts, getting through a half a line here and there, while watching Oliver finish project after project.
It’s only in the past month that I’ve been able to see the finish line come into sight.
“It’s beautiful. Do you love it?” He pulls it off the back of the sofa and runs it through his fingers. That’s part of what I love so much about it. Unlike many Afghans, this has so much texture. Its three-dimensional shape gives it a lot of character.
So do all the flaws, but I’m not going to mention those right now.
“Do you love it?”
“I do, but I’m never making anything like that again. From now on, I’m sticking to scarves.” It’s what everyone I know is getting for Christmas this year.
“Can we keep it on the sofa? Please.”
“That’s what I was planning.” Does it go with anything else in the space? Nope, but it’s meaningful to both of us, so it stays. “We can curl up under it for a movie night.”
“Can we do that tonight?” He wrinkles up his nose. “After I shower? I feel gross after being on a train for the last ten hours.”
“Of course.” I don’t mention that it would’ve been a two-hour flight. Instead, I let him slip away to get clean.
When he returns, I have a bowl of popcorn and two beers in the living room ready to go. “You’re the best,” he says.
I don’t know about that. I’ll give him twenty-four hours to unpack his bags before I start nagging him about them. Or maybe put them in his office so I don’t have to look at them. “Get in here.” I lift the edge of the afghan, so he curls in next to me. I’ve missed this so much.
We’ve managed to spend time together almost every day for the past few months, with rare exceptions.
I’m looking forward to being in the same space, knowing that even if I work at night, I might be able to come home and have breakfast with him before he gets to work and I go to bed.
It’s not the ideal situation, but it’s one I’ll take over the alternative.
“What do you want to watch?”
“Nothing,” he says. “I’d rather just sit here with you tonight. Maybe talk a little. Is that okay?”
“Yeah, that’s okay.” I pull him extra close, knowing that after days away, we both need the reminder of our connection.
He runs his hand over the blanket a few times. “Maybe I should start calling you Strawberry.”
“Only if you’re going to let me call you Ollie.” The look of disgust on his face is enough to have me cracking up. “Exactly.”
“Fine. You’re no fun.”
“But you love me.” I poke him gently in the side.
“Yeah, I do,” he says wistfully before leaning over and kissing me. It’s slow and sensual without being at all demanding. Tonight, will certainly end up with us in bed, me showing Oliver exactly how much I missed him. For now, neither of us is in a rush to get there.
“I love you, too.”