Chapter Twelve - Asher #2
I didn’t want it at first. I tried to sign it over to her, then to Glen.
Both of them refused. So, I said I just wouldn’t deposit the money.
How could he have thought to leave me anything?
I’d left. I’d gone away without a goodbye.
It didn’t make sense. It must be some kind of mistake.
I wrote to the lawyer, called him up, but it wasn’t a mistake.
Every single penny of that money was really, truly mine.
Then, late at night, as I tried to sleep, an idea began to form. It was just a little acorn of a thought at first, but soon it grew into a full-blown tree with bright leaves and strong limbs.
I made a phone call.
And then I made up my mind.
He’s early.
I’ve barely dried off from my shower when I hear the knock—a little timid at first, then louder, more assured.
He isn’t dressed as neatly as I’m used to seeing him.
He wears slightly faded blue jeans and a sweatshirt under his brown coat.
It’s like he put some thought into not putting thought into it.
I think about that day when he washed my motorcycle, to make us even, and how he showed up like he was taking his class picture.
He seems so different from back then. And it isn’t even a back then ; only a few months have passed. It could be years and years.
“Hey, pal,” I say.
“Hey.” He leans against the door, looking past me at the boxes.
I follow his gaze. “It shouldn’t take too long. I got some charity coming by for some of it.”
He shifts on his feet slightly. “If I paid you, could I take some of it?” He pushes his glasses up. “I’m going to get my own place, and I’ll need some furniture.”
I try to hide a smile. “Is that so?”
“Yeah. I’m saving up.” He stands just a bit taller.
“Well,” I say. “In that case...” I let my thought trail off, and he steps inside, waiting for me to finish but I don’t.
We spend the next hour or so taking stuff out to Glen’s truck.
He helps me pack things neatly in the back, and we don’t say much.
It’s just lifting and carrying and navigating those twice-damned stairs.
Paul is surprisingly strong, however, and we get everything into the truck bed quicker than I’d expected.
I get in the driver’s seat and light up a cigarette, and he gets in beside me. I realize for about the first two miles it will seem that we’re going to my family home before I take a different turn. When I go north instead of east, I glance over at him. He looks perplexed but doesn’t say a thing.
It’s another five or six miles before he leans forward in the seat, and I feel his eyes on me, the spark of recognition.
The place looks different with the trees all bare and a white slice of ice over the surface of the lake.
And when I pull up to the cabin, where my bike is parked and covered with a tarp, he’s turned to the window so I can’t see his expression.
I park near the door and get out. He gets out with me and watches me as I open the back of the truck, watching as if he expects me to say something, make an announcement.
Instead, I grab one of the posts of my headboard and nod for him to give me a hand.
We take it inside and lean it against the wall.
He stares at the spot where the other bed used to be.
Then he stares at the walls. “Did you paint?”
“Yeah. A little.” I put my hands in my pockets. “Just a little bit.” I nod to the dark gray across from the kitchenette.
His lips don’t smile but his eyes do.
I wipe at some dust on my coat. “There are good memories here. You know?”
The smile spreads to his mouth. “Yeah. I know.”
Once we get everything inside, I give him an abbreviated grand tour.
I replaced the dining table with a new one.
I took out the armchairs so I could use my own.
I watch his face as I show him, watching to see if he realizes what I was attempting to do.
I thought it would be clear and I hope it is; I don’t intend to stay here alone.
We find ourselves in the kitchenette where I replaced the stove and put in a refrigerator. Some of the cabinet doors are askew, and I’ll need to fix them. I give him a minute or so to take it all in. It’s a bit unnerving that he’s said nothing so far. I offer him a nudge.
“I bought it.” I gesture around us. “It’s mine.”
He still looks puzzled. Even a bit timid.
So, I clear my throat and explain it to him.
The lawyer, the inheritance, and going to see Randy, giving him the cash, our handshake deal.
Paul seems to understand, but he’s silent while I talk.
I remind myself I came back so unexpectedly, completely unannounced, and for me to assume he’ll be happy, that he’ll jump at the chance, isn’t fair.
I should know, better than anyone, how much can change in such a short time.
The thing is, I was hoping that no amount of time would change us.
“You’re really going to stay here?” He reaches out and fingers one of the crooked cabinet doors. He’s so careful about it, so gentle; it has an effect on me.
I light up a cigarette to take the edge off; prepare myself. “Yeah. Live here. Stay here. My home.”
He nudges the cabinet door to straighten it, but it falls back into place.
“I’ll have to fix that,” I say. “When I get some time.”
He looks over at me again.
“Or…” I pause, give it a second or two. “You could help me?”
He’s curious now but doesn’t answer.
I clear my throat, but I do it as I inhale, and it makes me cough a little. “I, um. I was thinking. Thinking you could stay here. With me.”
He keeps staring.
“If you want to, that is. But I was hoping…I just thought you’d like it here.”
He looks away, out of a window, pushes up his glasses. “I wanted to get my own place.”
“Sure, yeah.” I nod at him like that makes sense, hide my disappointment. “Of course. And you should. It’s good to live on your own.”
I had tried to prepare myself for an answer that wasn’t a resounding and eager yes. I didn’t necessarily think he’d be insulted or furious with me. But I’d hoped. Like anyone would.
He slides his foot over to mine, nudges the toe of my boot with his sneaker. “Can I think about it?”
“Of course, pal.” I nudge back. “Of course you can think about it.”
We spend the remainder of the morning and part of the afternoon unloading and arranging. He helps me unpack the boxes with the more crucial items, get the bed made up, and put some food in the cupboards.
Everything we brought from my apartment fits inside nicely.
I’d tried to be discerning, take measurements, and be sure.
I didn’t want to invite Paul into a place that was cluttered or completely falling apart.
I probably should have fixed it up better before I showed him.
That was my original plan. But I like having him here, helping.
And after a while he takes off his coat and takes a seat.
I’d bought a wood-burning stove and had it installed a few weeks ago.
I wanted to show him I’d prepared for the cold.
I put some wood in it and get it going. It’s already getting dark outside, despite it only being four-thirty.
I heat a coffee pot on the stove and make us each a mug.
Paul sits on my bed, and I take a seat in one of the armchairs.
“It looks good in here,” he says. “With all your stuff. It looks better.”
I nod and light up a smoke.
“What’s going to happen to your apartment?”
“I paid the rest of the lease off. I’m guessing they’ll rent it again.”
He looks thoughtful. “Was the rent expensive?”
I take a drag, chuckle. “You can find somewhere better than that place, pal.”
He shrugs, smiles. “Maybe, but it would be nice to be close to my aunt.” He looks at me carefully, takes a sip of his coffee. “I’ve been paying her. For bills and stuff.”
“That’s good.”
“She didn’t want me to, but I wanted to help.”
“I see.”
He gets quiet then, looking down at his lap. The conversation rolls to a stop, the discomfort between us beginning to grow. We’d avoided it this whole time, but now it’s here and it’s overbearing.
After a minute or so he says, “I really missed you.”
It drops on me like a boulder. I never know when I need to hear something until I actually hear it. My hand shakes as I bring the cigarette to my lips.
“I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again,” he says, plain and simple. It’s the most obvious thing. Clear as a bell.
“I know. I’m sorry.” I say, far from plain and definitely not-so-simple.
“But you don’t need to be sorry,” he says. “I don’t want you to be sorry. I just…I thought I wouldn’t see you again. I was trying to get used to it. And now you’re here, and we’re here, and—”
“I know.” I look over at him, search for the right words. “I needed to see you. And I didn’t want to make things between us any worse.”
He looks at me, perplexed. “Any worse?”
“You didn’t write me.”
“You didn’t write me .”
He’s got me there. I take a long drag. “I tried to. But everything I wrote just wasn’t…enough.”
He’s quiet for a few minutes. “Same here.”
I reach for his hand, tentatively, and his fingers entwine with mine, his hold firm and assured.
“I was afraid things wouldn’t be the same between us,” I say.
He squeezes my hand. “I don’t want them to be the same.”
I stare at him.
“I want them to be better.” He closes his eyes for a second, then opens them.
He withdraws his hand. “But I missed you. I missed you so much and now that you’re here…
what if you go away again? What if you change your mind?
I feel like everything is up to you. You see me when you want to.
You come back and ask me to stay with you. When you want to.”