11. At Home
(Same Sunday, Not Far Away)
(Josh)
T he house is quiet when I wake. No alarm, no sound except the distant rattle of the ice maker in the kitchen. I reach across the sheets and feel the space beside me—still warm, but barely. Kevin is already up.
I roll out of bed slowly, padding barefoot down the hall and into the kitchen.
He’s already at the small dining table, wearing his reading glasses, hunched slightly over a textbook with a pen balanced between his fingers.
A half-drunk mug of coffee sits beside him next to a yellow legal pad covered in neat, angular handwriting.
“Morning, baby,” I say.
Kevin glances up, then offers a soft smile. “Hey. Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.” I cross the room, kiss his temple, and glance at the legal pad.
The title at the top of the page is written in sharp, precise lettering: Preliminary Market Update: Forecasting Client Behavior Post-Rollout — by Kevin Summers. I smile at its formality as if he’s already halfway to running his own department .
“What are you working on this time, Professor Summers?” I jokingly ask, leaning over to steal a sip of his coffee.
He glances up again, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Just prepping for Tuesday.”
Kevin’s crew-cut hair is still damp from a quick rinse, and the tan of his skin stands out beneath the crisp white T-shirt stretched across his chest and arms. Kevin’s always been solid, broad-shouldered, athletic, and clean-cut, making strangers assume they know him. But they don’t.
“It’s almost ten. Have you been at it long?”
“Since six-thirty.”
He says it without complaint as if it’s just what Sundays are for now—stats, theory, case studies. Since starting the MBA program at Emory, weekends have become his second shift.
We moved to Atlanta a year and a half ago so he could finish his undergraduate degree. Now he’s full-time at IBM as a Junior Business Analyst, and every spare moment goes into this next phase. He never says it aloud, but I know he’s making up for lost time.
I pour myself a cup of coffee and sit across from him. He reads for another minute, underlines something, and then finally looks up.
“Any plans today?”
I shrug. “Thought we could walk over to B-Side or maybe grab lunch in Little Five Points. Or not. I’m good either way.”
Kevin smiles again, but it doesn’t quite land. “Maybe later. I need to prepare for Tuesday’s meeting. Rosenbaum’s expecting a draft analysis by Monday night. ”
“Right,” I say, even though I’ve never met Rosenbaum and have no idea what the draft is about. I sip my coffee and let the silence stretch.
It’s not a cold silence—not distant, just routine.
We’ve been renting this house in Virginia Highlands for three months now.
We were ready for something quieter, closer to school, and more grounded: a yard, a porch, a real kitchen.
We haven’t unpacked everything yet, but the house feels more like us than living at The Mayfair, the Midtown high-rise we rented before. This feels like home.
“Hungry? I ask as I rise and walk to the kitchen, now that it appears we’ll be staying in.
“Famished,” he replies. “We can head to the park after this—maybe hit some balls?” he adds, still underlining and taking notes.
I set a plate near him. It’s nothing fancy, just some eggs and a slice of toast, but I scratch something on a Post-it note and stick it on his plate: Preliminary Meal Update: Forecasting Boyfriend Behavior Post-Breakfast — by Josh Bennett .
Kevin murmurs a thank you without noticing it, but when he does, he chuckles and looks up at me.
He signals me closer with an index finger, and I bend toward him.
He gently holds the back of my head and draws me nearer. He gives me a passionate kiss.
“You’re the best, Chef Bennett,” he says. “I love you.”
“I love you, too, Professor Summers.”
Kevin doesn’t eat right away, though. His work consumes him: he reads, highlights, and takes notes. He’s a man on a mission, not easily deterred by distractions.
I watch him from the kitchen as I clean up, his jaw flexing as he reads, his brow slightly furrowed.
He’s always focused like this: methodical, intent.
It’s part of what I love about him. I know he’s not pulling away.
He’s just doing what he’s always done: building the next version of himself brick by brick .
When I bring him a refill, I set the mug down and let my fingers brush his shoulder. It startles him. Just slightly. Barely a flinch. But enough.
“Sorry,” I say quickly. “Didn’t mean to—”
“It’s okay,” he says, setting his pen down and leaning back. He rubs the side of his neck like he’s just now realizing how tight he’s been holding himself. “I guess I’m a little on edge.”
“Busy week?” I ask.
“Yeah.”
The air between us isn’t tense, but it’s not as easy as usual. Still, it’s comfortable and familiar. There’s love in the silence—we’ve grown used to living in its corners lately.
We move to the living room, and Kevin carries his books and notes to the sofa.
I grab my sketchpad and sit nearby, letting the quiet settle again.
The house still smells faintly of roasted coffee and laundry detergent—clean and lived in.
Several half-unpacked boxes sit near the bookshelf.
Three months now, and we still haven’t found the time to place everything.
My job at the rehab center keeps me busy enough—outpatient therapy for mostly older clients recovering from strokes, surgeries, or accidents.
I like the work. It’s hands-on, physical, but still full of care.
Some days, I think it’s the only thing keeping me sane when Kevin disappears into his work, classes, books, and spreadsheets.
When we first met, it was in a parking lot outside a club in Bayview.
Kevin was still reeling from everything he’d lost in a too-young marriage gone bad too quickly.
He was only then beginning to figure himself out.
I didn’t know any of that at the time. I just knew he looked tired and out of place and somehow familiar.
We didn’t even go back inside. He said no to coffee that night but gave me his number.
A week later, we spent five hours talking at a diner.
That was four years ago, and the start of all this .
Kevin’s satchel, lugged back and forth between work and school, slouches near the entryway. When the pager inside goes off, the high-pitched chirp slices through our home’s calm like a fire alarm. Kevin flinches. So do I.
“What the hell was that?” I ask, already rising halfway off the couch.
“Sorry.” He sighs and crosses the room, digging through the side pocket until he finds the small black device. He flips it over, squinting at the numbers.
“Nothing,” he says, clicking it off. “Just a page. No code.”
“Work?” I ask.
“Doubt it. We use priority codes—two-digit tags for urgency. And they never page on Sundays.” He drops the pager back into his bag and zips it shut.
“Don’t recognize the number, anyway. I’ve gotten a few of those.
I guess it used to belong to a doctor, probably still rerouted from an answering service. ”
“You want to call back?”
Kevin shakes his head. “Naw. If it’s urgent, they’ll page back.
I go back to sketching. Kevin goes back to reading. The quiet holds, and the light through the window shifts as the afternoon passes.
“Hey,” he says, closing his book and rubbing his eyes. “Do you still want to walk down to the park? My eyes are shot, and I could use a break.”
“Yeah,” I say, standing. “Let’s get some fresh air.”
Kevin nods, already reaching for his keys. He doesn’t look back. But I do—just once—at the satchel slouched in the corner, still zipped shut.