CHAPTER 42
TREY
The first month of Paula’s new job was ugly.
Early trains.
Late calls.
Hotel nights.
Trey’s semester ending.
Two canceled weekends.
The conversation about living arrangements took three attempts because both of them kept answering questions the other had not asked.
Trey talked logistics. Paula talked identity.
Paula talked space. Trey heard distance.
Eventually they stopped defending positions and described fears instead.
That was when the conversation became useful.
One argument about whose turn it was to travel.
The fantasy of effortlessly merging lives met the Northeast Corridor.
On a Thursday night, Trey arrived at Paula’s Brooklyn apartment at 11:20 after a delayed train.
She opened the door wearing pajamas.
“You look terrible.”
“Romantic.”
“Come in.”
He dropped his bag.
Paula hugged him.
For a long time neither moved.
“This is hard,” she said into his chest.
“Yes.”
“I hate that answer.”
“I know.”
They ordered Chinese food at midnight.
Paula fell asleep on the sofa before it arrived.
Trey covered her with a blanket.
When the buzzer rang, he paid.
He woke her enough to eat.
At one thirty they sat on the floor with cartons between them.
Paula said, “What if we’re stupid?”
“For?”
“Trying to do two cities.”
“Maybe we are.”
She stared.
Trey ate a dumpling.
“You’re supposed to reassure me.”
“I can reassure you that I love you. I can’t promise logistics won’t be difficult.”
Paula leaned her head against the sofa.
“I love you too.”
“Good.”
“Still hard.”
“Yes.”
They laughed.
That weekend they created a calendar.
Not Trey.
They.
Red for New York.
Blue for Washington.
Gold for protected weekends.
Paula held the marker.
“No work on gold unless somebody is dead, indicted or on fire.”
“Define fire.”
“Literal.”
“Reasonable.”
They stuck the calendar on her refrigerator.
It looked ridiculous.
It also worked.