5. April 30th
Angie
Having Rafael back in my life full time is even better than I thought it would be. It’s also kind of worse, but in a way that’s easily ignorable. Over the last month, we’ve been hanging out after work at least a couple nights each week, usually in the evenings when he doesn’t have rugby practice. Sometimes by ourselves and sometimes with friends. Being with him—in any capacity—is like breathing. It’s natural.
Sometimes we’ll simply hangout, watching trash TV and eating ice cream as I self-medicate my period cramps. Which was a minor relief when I did get my period a couple weeks ago. I know we said nothing happened, but it’s still a relief to get that confirmation each month.
Our playlists seem to be getting out of control in the best way. We started curating them once we both graduated with our master’s degrees, and he moved to DC. It was a way we still connected to each other outside of the near daily text messages, at least weekly video calls, and monthly trips to visit one another. Playlists for trips we took to Mexico together, for holidays, for camping trips, and everything in between. Our master playlist holds the largest assortment of music—all four hundred plus songs that we deem our favorites or at least have some memory associated with it.
But now, instead of songs being added once a week or so, we’re sharing multiple times a day. I want to share everything with him—every thought and feeling put to a melody.
We haven’t spent every free night together though. We’re not that codependent. There have been a few nights where each of us went out on dates. Raf saw some guy named Charles for a few nights and it ended exactly the way it always does for him. I went out with a couple guys I met on a dating app—both of which ended on-brand for me. One guy took one look at me, eyes round, turned, and left the bar without saying a word. You know, I go to great lengths to make sure my profile photos capture my fatness. I clearly indicate that I’m five-foot eight and thick. What is so surprising to these fuckwads?
The other guy, who asked me out and made the plans at a trendy expensive restaurant, showed up, ordered a ton of food and four drinks for himself, then conveniently forgot his wallet. This is not the first time this sort of thing has happened to me. So when he asked me if I could spot him, I said, “Sure. Let me just head to the ladies’ room and I’ll be right back.” I got up, found our server, paid her for my portion and tip, then left without looking back. I blocked that mooch before I even got in my rink-a-dink car.
That was over a week ago and I’ve been pinching pennies since then to make up for the unexpectedly high price of that dinner.
The whole dating situation makes me sick. Or maybe that’s just my physical body; I haven’t been feeling my best lately. Maybe I need more sleep and fewer fucks to give about men.
“I think we added too much Old Bay to this batch,” Raf says, digging through our shared popcorn bucket. I gasp, but he chuckles. “I know. I never thought I’d say those words either.”
We’re sitting on my tiny sofa watching Love Island. My rented room is barely big enough for my queen size bed, a loveseat, circular coffee table, TV, and bookcase. I do have a large closet, which I’m eternally grateful for. My room is cozy and decorated just the way I like it—which is to say whimsical and weird and a little bohemian. Lavender is the most prominent color choice, but there’s fluffy white bedding, mushroom decals adorn the white baseboards, and fairy lights twinkle along the ceiling’s edge. The trickling sound of a tiny plug-in water feature sits atop a floating shelf in the corner; and below on another shelf are essential oils and crystals.
Alright, so I’m a little crunchy. It’s not like I tell my students amethyst and patchouli will solve their problems. It’s not that deep; I’m simply here for the vibes. Meditation on the other hand—that’s one I’ll share with the kids who need it.
As a kid, I never had much choice in my décor. I was too busy taking care of my four siblings and sharing a room with Ivy to have any time to discover what my style was. So now I’m a thirty-one-year-old woman with a funky, ultra-feminine bedroom and I savor it.
There are dried flowers hanging everywhere, as well as fake sunflowers in a vase on my nightstand. It’s a plastic vase, but that’s only because Razzle keeps knocking it over. He has one eye and the other barely works, but somehow, he knows where the flowers are and must disrupt the peace.
Fucking orange cats, man.
Thankfully he’s distracted by Rafael’s generous rubs as he lounges in his lap, so the sunflowers live to see another day. But when a light knock sounds on my door, he abruptly launches himself into the closet to hide.
I live in a family’s home with Sarah, Pete, and their two young children, so whoever is knocking can only be from that very short list of people.
“Come in,” I call.
When the door slowly opens, Sarah’s head pops in. “Hey,” she smiles. “Can I talk to you for a minute?”
Sarah and I used to be colleagues when we were foster care case workers. But when I moved on to being a children’s mental health outpatient therapist, we kept in touch. When she found out I needed a new place to live a few years ago, she offered her place to me.
“Yeah, come on in.” There’s no more room to sit down, but Rafael gets up and offers his spot while he goes to sit on my bed.
When Sarah sits, I just know she’s about to unload something on me.
“There’s no easy way to say this,” she sighs. “So, I’m just going to get it over with. Pete and I have decided to sell the house. We’re moving back to Harrisburg.”
I stare at her with a slack-jaw. She simply stares back at me with a wan smile, like she knows it’s going to take me a few seconds to register everything.
“So,” I drawl. “You need me to move out.”
She winces. “Unless you want to buy our house.”
Ha. Like I could afford this place. “You and I both know I couldn’t.” I let out a long exhale and look up to the ceiling—the twinkling lights mocking me. With resignation, I ask, “When do you need me out by?”
“June first?”
“That soon?” Raf interjects.
“I’m afraid so,” she says. “I know this is hard. I’m sorry.” Sarah stands up and makes her way to the open door. “I don’t want to take up any more of your time,” she says, gesturing to the pair of us sitting there dumbfounded. “I’ll let you get back to your night. I’m sorry again, Ang.”
“It happens,” I sigh. “Thanks for letting me live here though. It’s been nice.”
“It has,” she says with a smile and then leaves, closing the door gently. My room is quiet for a long moment while I continue to process what happened.
Rafael seems lost in thought too until he jumps up from my bed and lands next to me on the sofa. “Move in with me.”
My head jerks in his direction. “What?”
“Yeah,” he nods. “Why not? We’ve lived together in college. What’s so different now?”
I study him. “The difference is we were both broke in college,” I say. “And now you’re a friggin’ chief financial officer and I’m—” I wave to my small room. “I should be living within my means.”
“How is this any different than what your current situation is?” he asks seriously. “You’re living with people who make more money than you and offered you a place to live.”
“Um,” I try to think it through.
“Exactly,” he says flatly, and then takes my hands in his. “Come on. You can live with me for free.”
“Absolutely not, dude!”
“Okay! Okay. Just pay me what you are currently paying here. Fair?”
“Raf,” I say, trying to reason with him. “Your townhouse is way nicer than this place.”
“You don’t know how much they pay for this house. But that’s not the point,” he says, squeezing my hands a little tighter. “The point is, we spend all our time with each other anyway, we’ve lived together before and fucking excelled at it, and I’m in a position to be able to offer this to you.”
Chewing on my lip, I ponder the possibility.
He continues. “Do you think you don’t deserve to live somewhere nice just because you don’t make much money?” I roll my eyes at the accurate statement. “Angel, you could be making more money than me working at a private practice. Instead, you’ve chosen to work with kids who need you. With families that don’t always appreciate you. You’ve chosen to work for those who could never afford to pay you out of their own pockets. Stop making yourself believe you’re only as worthy as your salary.”
My eyebrows lower as I pout at how right he is. “Okay,” I sigh. “That was really nice of you to say.”
“So you’ll move in?”
Should I? Based on previous experience, I know I can. But that tendril of unrequited…emotion…I keep locked away… what about that? I’ve been able to keep it at bay—the feeling that shall not be named. At this point, it’s like your favorite pair of shoes suddenly have a little squeak to them, and you think, Well, that’s annoying. But I’m never going to throw away these shoes. They’re the best.
I can live with a little squeak—I’ve been doing it for years. I can keep it up.
Letting out a sigh, I look at him in his deep brown eyes and I give in. “Yeah. I’ll move in.”
“Fuck yes!” he cheers, grabbing my arms and shaking me like I’m a magic eight ball. But Razzle thinks he’s attacking me, so he jumps to my rescue and starts biting his arms. Again, how can he see? “Ow ow! Okay, I let her go! Stop!” he screams, jumping up and running away to the safety of my bed. “You know, you’re moving in too, big man. I wouldn’t be so aggressive to the person sheltering you.”
Razz curls up in my lap and starts loudly meowing at him—like he’s setting the ground rules.
Good boy.