Chapter 108 - Home #2
"I used to think being useful was important."
"It is."
"Yeah. But too important."
She waited.
"I think I spent a lot of time making sure people needed me."
"At work?"
"Everywhere."
She nodded slowly.
"Why?"
I shrugged.
"Maybe because if people need you, they don't leave."
Layla was quiet.
Then she picked up her coffee.
Took a sip.
Made a face.
"What?"
"No sugar."
"You don't take sugar."
"I do."
I stared.
"Since when?"
"Always."
Fuck.
I had made my coffee twice.
She laughed.
I started making another one.
Then she said—
"Lia."
"Hmm?"
"I don't need you to make my coffee."
I froze.
She continued.
"I like it when you do."
I looked at her.
"But I can make my own."
"Obviously."
"And if you stop making coffee tomorrow, I'm not leaving."
I stared.
She shrugged.
"I like you. Not your administrative services."
I laughed.
Hard.
"Administrative services?"
"Yes."
"Very romantic."
"I'm serious."
I knew.
That was why it hit.
She walked closer.
"You don't have to make yourself necessary all the time."
I looked down.
Then back at her.
"What if I enjoy being useful?"
"Then be useful."
She smiled.
"Just don't confuse it with being loved."
Fuck.
I looked away.
"That's rude."
"What?"
"Being correct this early in the morning."
She kissed my cheek.
"Make my coffee."
I laughed.
"With sugar."
"Yes."
"Current information."
"Very important."
Months passed.
Not dramatically.
That's what I liked about them.
Our lives folded together in small ways.
I knew what groceries she always forgot.
She knew I would buy the good version of something if the cheap one annoyed me twice.
She had a drawer at my place.
I had two at hers.
Eventually three.
Neither of us acknowledged the escalation.
Jane did.
Of course.
One afternoon, she saw Layla's slippers near my door.
She looked at them.
Then at me.
"Those aren't yours."
"Correct."
"Layla?"
"Yes."
Jane looked toward the kitchen, where Layla was helping Mama with something.
Then back at me.
"She lives here now?"
"No."
"How many nights a week?"
"None of your business."
"Four?"
"Jane."
"Five?"
"Fuck off."
She grinned.
Chloe, sitting on the couch, said—
"Domestic."
"Both of you leave."
Layla called from the kitchen.
"Who are you throwing out?"
"Everyone."
"Okay."
Jane looked at Chloe.
"She's calm."
Chloe nodded.
"Very."
"I can hear you."
"Good."
Normal.
Home.
The marriage conversation happened months later while we were folding laundry.
Of course.
Layla held up one of my shirts.
"This is yours."
"I know."
"Why is it in my laundry?"
"Migration."
She stared.
"Clothes migrate?"
"Apparently."
She folded it.
Put it with mine.
There was enough of my clothing at her apartment now to justify a category.
Interesting.
Then Layla asked—
"Do you want to get married someday?"
I stopped folding.
Looked at her.
No ring.
No setup.
No crisis.
No one dying.
Just laundry.
"Generally?"
"To me, hopefully."
I laughed.
"Important clarification."
She smiled.
I thought about the question.
Not whether I could marry her.
Not whether marriage would protect something.
Not whether I could build a perfect enough relationship to guarantee it lasted.
Just—
Did I want it?
"Yeah."
Her expression softened.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
I folded another shirt.
"I think I do."
"Okay."
"What about you?"
"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't."
"Fair."
She folded a towel.
I stared at her.
"So that's the marriage discussion?"
"What else do you want?"
"I don't know. Wine?"
"We have detergent."
I laughed.
"Romantic."
"Very."
Then she looked at me.
Serious now.
"Not tomorrow."
"Good."
"Not because we're supposed to."
"Good."
"Not because we've reached some correct number of months."
"Very good."
"But someday."
I nodded.
"Someday."
She smiled.
Then handed me another shirt.
"Yours."
I took it.
"Are you sure?"
"It has your company logo."
"Strong evidence."
She laughed.
And we kept folding laundry.
That was it.
No crisis created the conversation.
No fear forced the commitment.
We weren't trying to secure each other before something terrible could happen.
We just liked the life we were building.
And maybe one day we wanted to call it marriage.
Later that night, lying beside her, I realized something.
Home wasn't a building.
I'd owned enough buildings.
It wasn't a company that couldn't function without me.
It wasn't people needing me every hour.
It wasn't making myself impossible to replace.
Home was simpler.
My toothbrush beside hers.
Her coffee with sugar.
My shirt in her laundry.
A drawer becoming three.
A blanket because twenty-three degrees was apparently attempted murder.
A business I could leave at six.
A woman who could make her own coffee and still liked when I made it.
Someone who didn't need me to be indispensable.
She just wanted me there.
I turned toward Layla.
She was already half asleep.
"Hey."
"Hmm?"
"I love you."
Her eyes opened.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
Then she smiled.
"I love you too."
I stared.
"That's it?"
She closed her eyes again.
"What do you want, fireworks?"
"No."
"Goodnight."
I laughed.
"Goodnight."
She reached for me under the blanket.
I moved closer.
Easy.
Warm.
Home.