20. Graham
GRAHAM
THEN
May, Year Two
“I refuse to live like this!” Miguel slammed the pantry door.
“You can’t go to the grocery store because you’re famous, and I’ll starve to death before you remember to have the next order delivered.
And…and!” He grabbed a crusty plate from the sink and thrust it in the air.
“You, sir, are a slob. Get a housekeeper. You can afford it.”
I sunk lower in my seat at the kitchen table. “We’ve been over this. I don’t like having strangers in my home. And when I’m not working, I don’t want anyone disturbing us.”
Our first fight had come out of nowhere, if we could even call it a fight. On the spectrum of conflicts, we were having a simple disagreement. An argument, at most. Either way, I hated when he was upset with me.
The plate clattered when he shoved it across the granite counter. “This isn’t sustainable, Graham. You can’t expect me to come here and ignore your messes, and you damn sure better not expect me to clean them up.”
“I’m not that messy.”
“Really? I beg to differ.”
He stomped down the stairs to the foyer where his messenger bag hung on the coat tree. I trailed behind and winced at the sight of my backpack on the floor. After poking through the organized pockets of his bag, he wielded a small notepad like he was threatening me with paper cuts.
“Here’s a list,” he said.
I took the notepad from him, eyeing the elegant handwriting chasing harsh bullet points. “Wet towels on the bathroom floor. Dirty clothes draped over the hamper. Baseboards collecting dust. What is this, a rap sheet of neglected chores?”
“It’s proof you need help. Get someone in here while you’re not home. Then you don’t have to worry about an invasion of your free time.”
“But I’ll have to worry about making appointments and keeping track of who’s coming in and out of my house.”
Miguel flung an arm out, pointing at the backyard. “The lawn service and pool cleaners come weekly.”
“They work outside.”
“Then I’ll do it,” he said, slapping his chest. “I’ll take control of the vetting and scheduling.”
I tilted my head, considering the idea. His proposal had merit.
Our busy, staggered schedules limited our quality time.
Adding third parties into the mix and making sure they didn’t walk in on us cuddling was a headache I’d been trying to avoid.
Miguel had a predictable calendar, and he managed life better than me.
“So, you’d be like my personal assistant?” I asked.
He reared back, his face red and twisted in outrage. “Fuck no! I’ll be the man of your house!”
Before he burst a blood vessel, I took his hand and led him upstairs to the living room. When I sat, he let out an annoyed huff and pushed my shoulder, urging me to lie down. The hideous gold couch still ruined the space, but we’d come to appreciate its deep cushions.
Lying on our sides, we faced each other.
The blue decorative pillows he bought added color to the room, and he fussed with one of them to prop up our heads.
Like with most things, our approach to cuddling differed.
I’d pull him on top of me and hold him however he landed, but Miguel wanted things to be in perfect order.
Even our knees and ankles had assigned positions, stacked, wedged, and tangled a certain way.
Once he was happy without our setup and relaxed a fraction, I rubbed his thigh to coax the tension from him. “Your plan sounds good, darling. Now tell me what this is really about.”
The sound he made was a mix between a whine and a growl. “My job. It stresses me out.”
“And taking on more jobs will relieve your stress?”
“No, but having a clean, organized space will.” As my hand journeyed to his waist and slowly untucked his shirt, his stiff shoulders loosened.
He sighed. “When I come over after a long day of dealing with my shitty boss, I want to relax with you. But the environment isn’t always relaxing, specifically the indoors. ”
I’d learned to hold my tongue when discussing Miguel’s job.
My poor opinions of his boss fueled his fire, and calming him down after a tangent was no easy feat.
I also stopped offering solutions, like finding a different job.
He insisted that I needed help for the simplest tasks, but his pride wouldn’t allow him to ask for help himself.
Miguel resisted change, to his own detriment, so I did what I could to ease his stress until he solved the problem on his own.
“Everything will be taken care of tomorrow. I’ll hire a cleaning service and set up regular grocery deliveries. What else?” I asked.
His palm slid along my chest before his fingers captured my necklace. “Nothing, for now. But one of these days—soon—I’m stealing your credit card and bringing in an interior designer.”
He made it sound like a threat, but I was on board with redecorating the house. If left to my own devices, the outdated decor would never change.
“Do whatever you want with the place.”
“You might regret saying that. I have eclectic tastes,” he warned.
“I trust your judgment.”
My thumb grazed his stomach, teasing his waistband on each pass. Our breaths flowed in tandem, steady and calm. The house and everything around me disappeared as Miguel held my gaze. In that moment, schedules and problems no longer mattered. Only he did.
The desire to surrender my space, body, and time to his caring hands consumed me. Even more prevalent was my need to take care of him in return.
“Move in with me,” I whispered.
He scooted closer until our chests were flush, and his lips brushed my jaw. “It’s not the worst idea you’ve had, but I’m gonna need the selling points.”
“Your lease ends next month, you stay here most nights anyway, and I promise to clean up after myself.”
Miguel thrust his hips, once. “I’m not convinced yet.”
“Think of all the sex. Lots and lots of sex. Any place. Any time.”
With a dramatic sigh, he dropped his head to the pillow again and smiled.
“A free-use Graham sounds exhausting, but I’m in.
I’ll bring my sewing machine over this weekend because your house has better lighting than mine.
But give me a couple of weeks to do some redecorating before I move everything else. ”
If Miguel wasn’t being so cuddly, I would’ve jumped up and turned a backflip. He agreed to move in without much of a challenge, but the real victory was in the benefits of our new living arrangement. I’d have his clothes in my closet, his toiletries in my cabinets, and him in my arms every night.