CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
The first problem with three cities was luggage.
Asha had six suitcases, eleven boxes, a lamp she claimed could not be replaced, and one plant that had survived college through neglect severe enough to become adaptation.
Nadine bought two rolling bags for Washington and returned one because the zipper sounded cheap.
I owned the same black overnight bag I had carried for twelve years. Portia called it depressing.
“It holds clothes,” I said.
“It holds resignation.”
We stood in Nadine’s bedroom while she packed for the furnished Washington apartment the council provided.
Her start date was Monday. Asha’s move to Chicago was five weeks later.
Mercer Row’s Baltimore design pilot had begun three weeks earlier, and Milan had already banned me from the shared studio unless invited.
Three cities. Four keys. More schedules than I wanted.
Nadine folded a blouse into the suitcase, then unfolded it and hung it back in the closet.
“You are not moving permanently,” I said.
“I know.”
“You can bring more later.”
“I know.”
“You are packing as if Washington does not sell lotion.”
She turned. “Do you want to leave?”
“No.”
“Then stop standing there narrating.”
I sat in the chair by the window. She packed better without an audience pretending not to supervise.
The job required her in Washington Tuesday through Thursday most weeks.
Monday and Friday would be Philadelphia unless travel moved them.
The council gave her a furnished one-bedroom near the office for ninety days.
After that, the housing decision was hers.
We had chosen Wednesday as our ordinary night.
The first week, I would take the late train to Washington.
The second, she would come home. The third would depend on a Baltimore site visit already on my calendar.
We planned one month and refused to pretend a color-coded calendar was the same as certainty. Nadine zipped the suitcase.
“Too much?” she asked.
“It closes.”
“That was not the question.”
“No. It is not too much.”
She looked around the room.
“I worked hard for this house,” she said.
“You are coming back to it.”
“I know. I just do not want the apartment to start feeling easier.”
“Easier than what?”
“Than having a life people can interrupt.”
I understood that fear. Solitude stayed clean because nobody asked it to adjust.
“You may like having a place where the throw pillows stay where you put them,” I said.
“I do not have too many throw pillows.”
“You have eleven downstairs.”
“You counted?”
“They affect seating.”
She sat on the edge of the bed.
“What if I like being away?” she asked.
“Then tell me.”
“That is your whole answer?”
“No. I will probably dislike hearing it. Then we talk about what you like and what you do not.”
“What if you like me being away?”
“I will like having control of the thermostat.”
“Warren.”
“I will miss you.”
The room settled.
“I will also enjoy some nights alone,” I said. “Both are true.”
She nodded. “Good.”
“I am starting to dislike that word.”
“You are starting to use it correctly.”
At Mercer Row, delegation had its own noise.
Milan signed the design studio’s first independent client on a Tuesday morning.
A restaurant group wanted three interiors redesigned before opening locations in Philadelphia and Baltimore.
The contract was smaller than our construction work and more profitable than I expected.
She brought it to the executive meeting for review.
I read the scope, insurance requirements, payment schedule, and termination clause.
Then I signed the owner authorization and handed it back.
“That is it?” she asked.
“What else?”
“You did not question the furniture allowance.”
“It is your division.”
“You hate upholstered dining chairs in commercial spaces.”
“I do.”
“The client selected them.”
“They will regret it.”
Milan smiled. “Growth.” Cedric, now responsible for field operations across both active cities, looked at me. “You still going to Baltimore Thursday?”
“Yes.”
“You have a superintendent.”
“I know.”
“You hired him.”
“I remember.”
“He passed the background check.”
“I signed it.”
Cedric leaned back. “Then why are you going?”
“Because the client meeting is mine.”
The answer was true. It also saved me from admitting I had no reason to be on the site the entire day.
I went to the meeting, reviewed the masonry samples, and left before lunch.
The superintendent did not call for help.
The building remained standing. That afternoon, I stopped at Thirtieth Street Station and bought a rechargeable transit card even though my phone could hold the ticket.
I preferred a second system. Nadine laughed when I showed her.
“You bought a backup for public transportation.”
“I bought a card.”
“You registered it?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you did.”
On her first Monday, I drove her to the station again.
This time, I parked. We walked inside with her suitcase between us.
The board changed her track twice. A family argued near the escalator.
Somebody had put a cardboard cup on the floor beside a trash can instead of inside it. Nadine looked at the departure screen.
“You can go,” she said.
“I have time.”
“I know. I am giving you an exit before this becomes a movie.”
“I am not making a speech.”
“Good.”
Her train began boarding. I handed her the suitcase. She reached into her purse and took out a small brass key.
“What is that?” I asked.
“Your house.”
“You already have the code.”
“The code is not a key.”
“When did you get this?”
“Milan had it made.”
I looked at her.
“She said you would turn it into a conversation if I asked you.”
“She was correct.”
Nadine placed the key in my palm.
“You gave me a drawer before you gave me a key,” she said.
“You did not ask.”
“I am asking now. Does this key belong to me?”
“Yes.”
“What are the rules?”
The question could have been teasing. Her face was not.
“You call if I am not expecting you,” I said. “You come in if there is an emergency. You use it when you are staying, when I tell you to meet me there, or when you decide you are coming home and want my house to be one of the places that means.”
Nadine’s eyes softened.
“Do not get poetic in a train station,” she said.
“I was being specific.”
“Same danger.”
She put the key on her ring beside the one for her townhouse. The boarding line moved. I kissed her once.
“Call when you get there.”
“I will text.”
“Call.”
“Why?”
“Because I want to hear your voice in the new place.”
She studied me for half a second.
“Okay,” she said.
I watched her walk down the platform until the crowd took her from view.
Then I left. I did not want less; staying in the station would not make the train return sooner.
That night, Nadine video-called from an apartment with beige walls, gray furniture, and no evidence anybody had ever chosen anything.
“This place needs help,” she said.
“It is temporary.”
“That has never stopped me.”
She turned the camera toward the kitchen. The cabinet doors were white. I laughed before I could stop myself.
“What the hell?” she demanded.
“Nothing.”
“You are enjoying this.”
“A little.”
She pointed the phone toward her face again. “I am buying green towels tomorrow.”
“Good.”
This time, she laughed with me.