Chapter 16 #2
“Well,” he says, finally, but has no end to the sentence, so just nods quickly to himself as if he’s convincing himself.
(Again, same.) “I have that wagon for groceries, let me get it for you.” He grabs the trolley which does meaningfully speed up the processes.
Rather than me walking armfuls of stuff between the two doors.
And he stands in the hallway and chats to me as I go back and forth.
Never daring to set foot inside Hudson’s apartment. (I get it.)
I’ve moved nearly all my stuff into the guest room, which is because it’s bigger than my living room.
I discover this on trip nine, when I finally stop moving long enough to stand in the middle of it and actually look.
The living room of 7B could fit inside this room with space to spare.
I have been living for almost a year next door in a bedroom space roughly the size of this room’s closet, sacrificing my own closet in the process.
I sit on the edge of the bed, I left it unmade when I climbed out of it this morning, but it feels like I’m doing it a disservice, so I quickly straighten the duvet and throw all the pillows (for design not function) back on the bed.
It’s not exactly the way he had it, but he isn’t sleeping in here, so it will do.
The light is different here at midday than it was this morning when I woke up.
It feels magical in a way I didn’t think he would subscribe to.
Then again, he’s smart, practical, thoughtful.
And my comfort in sharing a space will benefit both of us if it means I’m not constantly running back next door.
(This bed is too comfortable to run back next door.) Even if it feels like I’m cheating on my own apartment.
I should make a list. It’s the thought that arrives every time I am confronted with a large, unstructured task, that never amounts to the bullet points it should.
But there’s so much to do, items to unpack, things to organize, a system for the closet.
I should find some kind of order imposed on the chaos of my belongings now distributed across two apartments like I exploded gently. (I do not make the list.)
What I do instead is lie back on the cloud like duvet and look at the ceiling of a room that is mine (for now), knowing it is temporary, and making the decision, the Louisa James Evans factory default that has gotten me through every ending I never saw coming (always my fault) to just enjoy it while it's mine.
You can be terrified and still show up with a smile, I do it every day.
Even on the bad-luck days there’s a reason to smile, because the more I do, the more everyone smiles back at me.
Creating this Ponzi scheme of happiness that works.
The smile is real, by the way, the terror is just also real.
They're not mutually exclusive, they just take turns being louder. So the more I can find joy in all the things that might not last, that’s usually what drowns out the rest of it. (That and Hugh Jackman.)
Right now, in this room, in this light, the terror is very quiet. (And that is terrifying for a different reason.) I am somewhere between a guest and not, which is maybe the most honest thing I can say about all of this. Not quite belonging, not quite visiting. (Doesn’t that just sum me up.)
By the time Chandler and Toby get here, I’ve made more progress than I thought I would. Chandler walks in first, and I watch her face take in the full tour of the apartment in seconds, she’s not subtle about it. (She’s not subtle about anything.)
“Lou,” she says, stepping into the main room. Where the kitchen breaks away with the large marble island serving as the anchor to the space.
“I know.” And I do, it’s actually laughable.
“How is this even the same building?”
I walk towards the large windows, where they slide open to a balcony that has a view of the surprisingly quiet street we live on, despite being in the city. Sliding open the glass doors, and somehow the space becomes filled with even more light.
“I'm just saying.” She follows me out towards the balcony, leaving Toby behind us in the apartment, as she just sinks down onto the concrete floor, and I join her. “No wonder you married him. If I saw this apartment, I also would have jumped his bones.”
“That’s not exactly—” I begin, but stop myself as she narrows her eyes with skepticism.
“Yes, exactly, bones jumped.” I don’t know how much she will believe all of this, she seems to go back and forth between the romantic who wants everyone to fall in love, or at least fall into bed, with someone, and my best friend, who has doubts.
But what Hudson said is true, and I’ve put enough people in jeopardy by just existing.
I’m not going to ask someone else to lie for me.
Toby crosses the living room, where his glasses are pushed up his nose like he identified a research opportunity and will not be derailed by crown moulding, but eventually joins us on the balcony.