Chapter 7 — Francis #3
We finish dinner after that, the conversation lighter.
Dad asks about Knox's work at Ray's shop, about what kind of bikes he works on.
Knox asks about Dad's garden, about whether he needs help with the fall planting.
Normal conversation between two men who are finding their way toward something like family.
When we're done I start to clear the plates but Dad stops me.
"Leave them. I'll do them later."
"Dad, let me help."
"I said I'll do them later." His voice is firm. "I can still clean up after myself."
Knox and I exchange a look but we don't argue. We walk Dad to the door and stand there in the entryway that smells like lemon cleaner.
"Thank you for dinner," Knox says.
"Come back next week. Both of you."
"We will," I say, and kiss his cheek.
Dad puts his hand on Knox's shoulder, the tremor visible but his grip firm. "Take care of her."
"I will."
We walk back to Knox's house in the warm night air. The cicadas are loud and the streetlights cast long shadows and somewhere down the block a dog is barking. When we're halfway there Knox says quietly, "How much longer does he have?"
"Doctors say two years. Maybe five if he's lucky. But the progression is fast. Six months ago he could button his own shirt."
"What happens when he can't live alone anymore?"
"I don't know. Nursing home, maybe. Or I bring him to live with me. Haven't decided yet."
"Bring him to live with us," Knox says.
I stop walking. "What?"
"My house has three bedrooms. One's mine, one's storage, one's empty. We convert the empty one for him when the time comes. Ground floor, close to the bathroom. He can have his independence but you're there if he needs help."
"Knox, we've been together four days."
"And we'll have been together however many days it is when he needs to move in. Could be six months, could be two years. Point is, when it happens, we're ready."
I look at him standing under the streetlight, this man who's offering to care for my dying father like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Okay," I say.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. When the time comes, we'll bring him here."
We walk the rest of the way in silence. Inside his house I stand in the kitchen and look around at the bare counters, the empty walls.
"This place needs some life in it," I say.
"What do you mean?"
"I don't know. Something that says people actually live here instead of just existing."
Knox comes to stand beside me. "You live here now."
"Do I?"
"You slept here last night. You're here now. Your toothbrush is in my bathroom. Yeah, you live here."
"My lease isn't up for four months."
"So keep it for storage. But sleep here. With me."
I turn to look at him. He's watching me with that same steady attention, waiting for my answer like it's the only thing that matters.
"Okay," I say. "I'll stay."
Something in his face softens. He pulls me against him and kisses the top of my head. "Good."
We stand there in his kitchen holding each other while the refrigerator hums and the house settles around us. After a moment he says, "You hungry? I could make something."
"You don't have anything to make."
"I've got eggs. Toast."
"That's breakfast food."
"It's food. That's what matters."
I laugh and it feels good, easy. "Okay. Make me eggs."
He does. We sit at his kitchen table eating scrambled eggs and toast at ten o'clock at night, talking about nothing important.
About whether I should bring my furniture from the rental or just leave it.
About the fact that his coffee maker is dying and needs replacing.
About Dad's doctor appointment next week and whether Knox can come.
Normal things. Ordinary things. The kind of things people discuss when they're building a life together.
When we're done I wash the dishes while he dries, and we move around each other in the small kitchen like we've been doing this for years instead of days.
In bed later, I lie with my head on his chest and listen to his heartbeat. His hand traces lazy patterns on my back.
"You okay?" he asks.
"Yeah. Just thinking."
"About what?"
"About how different this is from what I expected when I came back to Bloomfield."
"Good different or bad different?"
"Good. Scary, but good."
His hand stills on my back. "You scared of this?"
"A little. It's fast. Everything about us is fast."
"We can slow down if you want."
"No. I don't want to slow down. I just want to... acknowledge that it's happening. That we're doing this."
"We're doing this," he says. "You and me. Building something real."
"Yeah."
I close my eyes and let myself settle into the reality of it. Knox's solid presence beside me. His house that's becoming our house. Dad three doors down who'll need us more as time goes on. The club and its complications. All of it, messy and imperfect and real.
This is what a life looks like. Not perfect, not simple, but chosen. Deliberately, consciously chosen.
And I'm choosing it.
I'm choosing him.
"I love you," I say.
"I love you too."
We fall asleep tangled together, and for the first time since I arrived in Bloomfield, I don't wake up in the middle of the night. I just sleep, deep and dreamless, in the arms of the man I left seventeen years ago and found again.
The man I'm keeping this time.