CHAPTER 35
Kane
"THIS IS ABUSE," Becker announces from where he's sprawled across his bunk like a starfish that's given up on life. "Actual, legitimate abuse. I'm calling someone. OSHA. The Geneva Convention. That hotline for people whose boyfriends are psychopaths."
I don't look up from where I'm folding his t-shirts into neat rectangles. "OSHA doesn't cover packing methodology."
"They should." He props himself up on his elbows to glare at me. "And those shirts were fine the way they were."
"They were balls of fabric that you shoved into your bag like you were hiding evidence."
"Efficient!"
"Chaotic."
"Organized chaos is still a form of organization."
I hold up what used to be a shirt and is now a Salvador Dali painting in fabric form. "This has achieved sentience and is begging for death."
Becker snatches it from my hands. "You're being dramatic."
"I'm being accurate." I return to the remaining pile of his clothes, which looks like a textile factory exploded. "How did you even fit all this in one bag?"
"Talent. Determination. Disregard for the laws of physics."
The cabin's nearly empty now—my stuff's already packed and stacked by the door with, Becker's belongings scattered across every available surface.
Our last day here.
This place—this tiny cabin with its bunk beds and paper-thin walls and shower that only produces two temperatures (hypothermia and surface-of-the-sun)—has somehow become significant. We fought here. Made up here. Had sex here.
So much has happened in these four walls that leaving feels like closing a chapter I'm not quite ready to finish.
My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I glance at the screen and freeze.
Dad: You may just be more stubborn than I am. I didn't know that was possible.
I stare at it for a solid ten seconds, reading it three times to make sure I'm not hallucinating.
"What?" Becker asks, apparently done with his dramatic death pose.
I hand him the phone.
He reads it, eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "Is this... is this him trying to be nice?"
"I think so?"
"Huh." Becker hands the phone back. "Not quite an apology."
"No," I agree. "But it's a start."
"Your dad's emotionally constipated," Becker says. "Must run in the family."
I throw a sock at his face.
He catches it, grinning, then watches as I return to organizing his clothes, explaining how to do it as I go.
"You know," he whines after a minute, "I don't actually need to know all this."
I fold another shirt. "You do."
"Why?"
"Because there are rules in my house."
He sits up fully, head tilted like a confused puppy. "Your house?"
I set down the shirt I'm holding and turn to face him. "Move in with me."
Becker blinks. "What?"
"Move in with me," I repeat, forcing myself to hold his gaze even though my heart's trying to escape through my ribcage. "My place’s big enough. Close to the rink. And has a dishwasher that actually works."
"You're selling your apartment based on appliance functionality?"
"I'm selling my apartment based on the fact that I want to wake up next to you every morning and not have to coordinate whose place we're sleeping at like we're running a logistics operation."
Becker's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again. "You want me to move in."
"That's generally what I meant by 'move in with me,' yes."
"Into your house."
"Apartment, technically, but—"
"With the rules."
I nod slowly. "With the rules."
"What rules?"
Oh good, now we're negotiating.
"Shoes off at the door," I start. "Dishes in the dishwasher immediately, not sitting in the sink. Laundry separated by color. Gym bags don't live on the kitchen counter—"
"You have a lot of opinions about domestic organization."
"I have a lot of opinions about not living in chaos."
"I'm chaos," Becker points out.
"I know." I step closer, until I'm standing between his knees where he's sitting on the edge of the bunk. "Move in anyway."
He looks up at me, blue eyes searching my face for something. "You sure? I leave wet towels everywhere. Eat cereal at two AM. Set off fire alarms—"
"I know all of this."
"And you still want me around?"
"Every day," I confirm. "Preferably starting immediately."
A smile breaks across his face. "Okay."
"Okay?"
"Yeah, you neurotic robot." He grabs my shirt and pulls me down for a kiss that tastes like yes and promise and the future. "I'll move in. But I'm not following your rules."
"You'll follow most of them."
"Some of them."
"We'll negotiate."
"With sexual favors?"
I pull back enough to look at him. "Are you trying to bribe me with sex to get out of doing dishes?"
"Is it working?"
"Absolutely not."
"Damn." He kisses me again, slower this time. "Worth a shot."
His hands slide under my shirt, fingertips tracing the muscles of my lower back, and suddenly the packing situation seems significantly less urgent.
"We should finish—" I start, but the rest of the sentence dies when Becker's mouth finds the spot below my ear that makes my brain shut down.
"Finish what?" he murmurs against my skin. "Packing On our last day here?"
"That was—fuck—that was the general idea."
"I have a better idea." He pulls back, eyes dark with want. "One last time. In this cabin. Where it started."
Where I first wanted to strangle him.
Where I first wanted to kiss him.
Where I first realized that wanting to do both simultaneously might be a permanent condition.
"The cabin where you drove me insane?" I ask.
"The cabin where you fell for my irresistible charm."
"Your chaos and complete disregard for organization?"
"Exactly." He grins, pulling me closer. "So what do you say, roomie?"
I glance at the door—unlocked. The window—curtains open. The pile of unpacked clothes—still very much unpacked.
Then I look back at Becker.
"Lock the door," I tell him.
His smile turns wicked. "Yes, sir."
The packing can wait.
Everything else can wait.
Right now, there's just this: him and me and the cabin where we learned how to be us.
And tomorrow, we'll take that home.