Epilogue
Brett
The small, cold key sits in my pocket. It’s weight is small, yet it feels heavy against my thigh. I’ve been carrying it for a few days, waiting for the right moment.
It’s hard to know when that is.
Between a busy work schedule, my boy getting over a cold, and my own nerves, I’ve found more than one reason to push my question back. Really, it’s not a question at all.
Konnor dances around the living room in his pajamas with a blanket tied around his neck. He claims he’s a superhero who can sing to save the day. Far be it from me to question his beliefs.
Saturday afternoon sunlight pours over him, adding to the majestic nature he always seems to possess. The dinosaur-print footie pajamas I bought him last month contrast perfectly with his skin as well.
He’s the picture of happiness.
And I’m the lucky Daddy who gets to watch it. This is the point in time I want to freeze. This peace. This balance.
If only it could be an everyday thing.
After months of dating, I’ve decided it’s time to officially ask Konnor to move in. Sure, he’s got a toothbrush here, and he spends most nights tucked to my side. His favorite spicy ramen packs are in my cupboard, along with a growing battalion of plushies that have taken over the couch.
But his official address, the place he retreats to do laundry or when he needs “big boy space,” is a twenty-minute drive away. An apartment he can barely afford, filled with half a life since so much of his is here now.
It’s time.
I miss him the moment he leaves. I find myself listening for a text to say he’s on his way even on nights he won’t be here. I want the boring stuff. I want to be the one to make him smile when he’s exhausted. To be there during every high and low.
More than that, I want him to feel secure. To know, in his bones, that this is his home. That I am his home.
The plan is simple. It can’t be a big public gesture. That would terrify him. It needs to be here, in our sanctuary, but still just as special as something more.
I’ve made his favorite dinner—my grandmother’s lasagna with the spicy sausage he loves. A bottle of apple juice is chilling in the fridge for us to drink out of the fancy glasses he insisted on buying.
I take a steadying breath. “Hey, pretty boy.”
He looks over, body still moving to the upbeat tempo playing from his phone. A smile spreads across his face, making the room even brighter than before.
“Hey, Daddy. You’re looking at me funny. Do I have chocolate on my face?” He rubs his nose dramatically, a gesture so him I grin even wider.
“Not this time,” I chuckle, walking over. I bend down and kiss his forehead. “Dinner’s almost ready. Will you set out the nice plates?”
His eyes widen a fraction. The “nice plates” are for birthdays or big friend parties. “What’s the occasion?”
“Do I need an occasion to spoil my boy?” I reply, hopeful to distract him even as my heart pounds against my ribs.
He narrows his eyes playfully but bounces over to the kitchen to do as asked. I watch him move with that familiar, loose-limbed grace. He hums along with the music still playing as he works.
I manage to pull away from staring at him to get the food from the oven. The cheesy-coated meal brings a squeal of joy from him when I set it on the table.
Dinner is a quiet, happy affair. He chatters about a funny video he saw online and the latest gossip from the club. Then I get a lesson in how the lasagna noodles are “the perfect level of squishy” so I can replicate it for next time.
“I have a surprise for you,” I say as we clear the plates.
“Pudding?” he asks, eyes lighting up in a hopeful way.
“Better than pudding. Close your eyes.”
“Daddy…” He drags out the word.
“Close them. And no peeking.” I adopt the firm-but-fond tone that always makes him comply.
He obeys, squeezing his eyes shut with exaggerated effort. His long lashes lay against his cheeks, distracting me for a moment. I take his hand and lead him back to the living room.
Once I ease him onto the couch, I lay everything out on the table. “Okay. Open them.”
He does as I ask, looking from me to the table. His expression shifts from curiosity to confusion.
On the table sits a small, polished wooden box. It’s the kind that might hold a watch or other knicknack. And next to the box, laid out in a row, are three items: his apartment key, his car key, and the fob for his building’s laundry room.
His head tilts. He looks from the keys to my face and back again. The confusion deepens, clouding into something like worry.
“I… I don’t understand. Are you giving these back to me? Did I leave them here? I’m sorry.” His voice is small.
My heart cracks. Of course, his first instinct is to assume he’s in trouble. “No, pretty boy. You didn’t leave them. I took them from your jacket earlier.”
Now he looks truly alarmed.
“You took my keys? Why would you…”
A look of horror washes over his features. His breath hitches.
“Are you asking me to move out? Is this because of the other day? With the smart mouth? I’ve been good, I promise, I won’t do it again.”
“Whoa, whoa, pretty boy. Stop.” I step forward and take his face in my hands, forcing him to look at me. “Look at me. Breathe. You are getting this so very backward. This is not a ‘go away.’ This is the absolute opposite of a ‘go away.’ Do you understand?”
I try to pour out every ounce of my love into my gaze.
He shakes his head, a tear escaping and tracing a path down his cheek. I catch it with my thumb. “No. I don’t.”
I release his face and pick up the wooden box. My own hands aren’t entirely steady. “Open the box.”
With a hesitant glance at me, he takes it. The latch clicks softly. He lifts the lid.
Inside, nestled on a bed of dark-green velvet is a single slip of paper. It says: Move in with Daddy?
If he says yes, then I’ll pull the key from my pocket to give to him. It’s the key to this apartment. To what would become our home.
He stares at it for another long second. The gears are turning, his beautiful, bewildered head. He looks at his old keys on the table. He looks at the paper in the box. He looks up at me, his eyes wide.
Deciding to put him out of his misery, I tell him my thoughts.
“I don’t want you to have to drive twenty minutes to do your laundry. I don’t want you to retreat when you need ‘big space.’ I want to be your space. All of it. The Little space and the big space and every space in between. Your lease is up next month. Don’t renew it.”
I take his left hand. Pulling the key from my pocket, I press it into his palm.
“I want you to come home and use this key. Every single day. I want you in dinosaur pajamas waiting while I cook dinner. I want your plushies to stage a full-scale invasion. Move in with me. Officially. Let this be your home.”
The silence stretches between us. He remains still, as if he’s sorting through each word I’ve said to make sure I’m being honest. It takes everything I have to stop myself from trying to convince him further.
My patience is rewarded a moment later when the confusion melts away to reveal a glorious smile. “You’re asking me to live with you?”
“I’m telling you I want you to live with me,” I correct gently. “But yes. That’s the question. Will you? Will you come home to me, every day?”
Instead of answering, he launches himself at me, throwing his arms around my neck and burying his face in the crook of my shoulder. I hold him, one hand cradling the back of his head, feeling the soft strands of his hair, the other wrapped firmly around his back.
This is my answer. I don’t need the words to know he wants the same future as me.
All too soon, he pulls back. “Yes, Daddy. I will move in and bring my army of stuffies.”
The relief I feel is instant. I kiss him softly at first, then deeper, pouring all my love into it. I need him to not just hear, but to also feel how much he means to me.
“But,” he starts, a flicker of his bratty side returning after our kiss, “what if I’m messy? What if I leave a mess everywhere?”
“Then I’ll help you clean it up,” I say without hesitation.
“What if I hog all the pillows?”
“I’ll buy more pillows. A mountain of them.”
“What if I get, you know, really Little and want to build a blanket fort at 2 AM?”
“Then, pretty boy, we will build the most epic blanket fort this apartment has ever seen. I will string the fairy lights myself. There is no ‘what if’ you can say that changes this. I want all of it.”
He looks at the key in his hand, then at his old keys on the table. With a sudden jerk of his hand, he sweeps the old keys into his palm and walks to the kitchen. I hear the loud clank as he drops them into the heavy ceramic jar on the counter. It typically holds spare change and takeout menus.
When he returns, he’s only holding the new key and sporting a proud look on his face.
“They can live there until I formally give them back to my landlord,” he announces. “This on though, this one needs a keychain. Something to show how important it is.”
I can’t help but laugh, the tension of the last week dissolving into pure joy. “We can go pick one out tomorrow. Anything you want.”
He wraps his arms around my waist, resting his head on my chest. We stand like that for a long time, in the middle of the living room, in the home we now share. I can feel the steady beat of his heart against mine. We’re synced down to our very core.
Later, we’re in bed, wrapped together in a blanket. The apple juice is long gone, as is the meal I’d prepared. My boy twists the key in his fingers.
“It felt like a proposal,” he says softly, almost like he’s speaking to himself.
I kiss the side of his head. “It was.”
He turns slightly to look up at me. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. A proposal for a different kind of forever. One that starts with sharing a closet and arguing about the thermostat.” I trace the line of his jaw, the faint stubble rough under my fingertips. “Is that okay?”
“It’s more than okay. I like this way a whole lot. But you should hold onto the key for tonight. I don’t want to lose something so precious.” He snuggles back into me with a happy wiggle.
The most precious thing here is my pretty boy. And I plan to hold onto him just as tightly too.
The End