Breaking the news to Isaac wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be. Yes, his jaw clenched for a few seconds when the words “Jack is moving in with me” registered. And yes, he took a deep breath, probably to calm himself. But then he said, “I’m glad you found someone who makes you happy.”
Yep. I was shocked.
As it turns out, the hardest part was deciding where we were going to live.
Jack has lived in Flinton for ten years, so he wanted to stay close to campus. Staying close to campus, though, meant either me moving into his tiny apartment, or us going through the process of selling my house and buying a new one. That meant a bunch of income verifications I would never pass as a full-time student who works only six hours a week.
Granted, the idea of not having a forty-five-minute commute each day is appealing, but coming home to my house is gratifying. It’s my little slice of paradise away from the rest of the world. It reminds me of how far I’ve come from the party-hard teenage girl I once was. Plus, giving up the equity, especially since we have no idea where I’ll end up working in a few years, seemed like a poor choice when we discussed our options.
In the end, we made a compromise of sorts. Jack gave up the apartment and decided to move into my home for the next few years. Once I graduate, and we know if I’m going to get a job in San Antonio, Austin, or one of the small towns like Flinton, we’ll discuss our living arrangements again.
At least, Jack wants me to believe it’s a compromise. I think the deciding factor was his realization that moving to the outskirts of San Antonio opened up a lot of options for hole-in-the-wall restaurants to try. It’s been a while since he’s found something new and authentic.
Regardless, now my house is being overrun by boxes and bags. So many bags. You’d think it would excite me, but Jack seems to only have two kinds of carryalls—black, carry-on suitcases with wheels and Vikings duffle bags. That’s it. It’s very disappointing, not to mention non-functional for the modern-day traveler.
Jack laughed when I told him that.
With the exception of a few odds and ends still being brought in, I think we’re finally almost done with the moving part. It’s taken us most of the day, despite how little he brought with him.
Since my house was already furnished, Jack was able to take most of his stuff to Goodwill. A few pieces here and there came with him, like an old wooden trunk that Sheila had jokingly called her hope chest. It’s a beautiful piece of woodwork that looks very rustic and Texas. It’s also where Jack stores all their old photo albums and the mementos he had of their life together. No way was I making him get rid of it. It’s too important. With a piece of specially-cut glass placed on top, it now sits in our living room and acts as a coffee table. It’s like part of Jack’s past is here, welcoming him into his future.
Yes, I know that sounds ridiculously cheesy, but there’s no other way to explain why it’s important for me to have it in our line of sight all the time.
Other than that one beautiful piece and a few odds and ends, all the rest of his furniture is gone.
I look up from the box I’m unloading when the front door bangs open and Hank practically falls into the room, carrying . . .
Oh no.
“What is that doing in my house?” I practically screech. “It’s . . . it’s . . .”
“It’s fucking heavy is what it is,” Hank exclaims. “Can you grab the cushion? I think it got stuck in the door jamb.”
“Oh!” I hustle, realizing he’s going to injure himself at any moment if they don’t get it inside and put down. Seeing Jack holding up the other end, grimacing, I work as quickly as I can.
A few tugs and twists later, I have the cushion out of the way and the two big bad football coaches come staggering in, trying their hardest to place the recliner gently on the floor.
Pointing my finger at the monstrosity, I try very hard not to sound as appalled as I am. “Uh, what is that?”
Jack either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care about the look of disdain on my face. He’s smiling like it’s Christmas morning. “It’s my chair.”
“Yeah, I got that. Why is it in my living room?”
He looks dumbfounded. “Because it’s my chair.”
Hank snickers from the other side of the room as he plops down on the couch so he can lean back and close his eyes. “Hasn’t even unpacked yet and the honeymoon is already over.”
We ignore him as we continue to stare at each other—him with a big, goofy grin and me looking like I smell something bad. Come to think of it, I might be. There’s an odor in the room now that wasn’t here before. I’m not sure if it’s the men or the monstrosity.
“Jack, I know the chair is important to you, but, um, it doesn’t really, you know . . . match the décor of the room.”
I’m trying to not sound like a horrible controlling person, but I don’t do well when other people get in my space and start moving it around. Which is a terrible thing to say since we’re moving in together and, technically, this is our space. But it’s going to take a bit for me to adjust.
My attempts at being polite are obviously not working, since Jack crosses his arms and widens his stance, blocking my way past him. I’m not sure where he things I’m trying to go, but clearly he’s defensive about his recliner. And here I thought men had a weird relationship with their cars.
“Are you saying my chair is not welcome in your home? In our home?”
I can tell by the look on his face that he’s not really irritated, but I also know he isn’t going to back down because he has a point. It’s just been so long since I’ve had to share a space with anyone other than my son, I’m not sure where my hard limits are. I don’t think the chair is one of them, but . . . wow, is that thing ugly.
Choosing my words carefully again, I look him in the eye, cross my own arms, and try a different angle. “I’m saying there is an underprivileged person out there who needs it more than you do.”
My eyes narrow when he begins laughing at me. I knew he wasn’t really irritated, even though I’m headed that way.
“Really, Joie? You’re pulling the starving-kids-in-China tactic?”
“I would never do that!”
He quirks an eyebrow at me. “I think you just did.”
Huffing, I blow my bangs out of my face and cave. “Fine. I did. Did it work?”
“No.”
“Come on, Jack,” I plead. “It’s just so . . . so . . . it’s so ugly.”
His jaw drops and covers his heart like I’ve wounded him. “How dare you?! I have had my chair since I was a junior in college . . .”
“I can tell . . .”
“It has been with me longer than most of my friends. Longer than my niece and nephew have been alive. It’s a part of me.”
“Literally?” I ask, crinkling my nose. “Because it kind of smells like BO.”
Hank barks a laugh, his eyes still shut so he misses the glare Jack shoots his way. He spins back to me, and I continue with my argument.
“I mean really, Jack. What color is this anyway?”
“It’s green.”
I scoff. “Hardly. If anything, I might call it puce, and that’s being generous.”
“I call it diarrhea brown,” Hank tosses out.
“You stay out of it,” Jack chides before looking back to me. “Come on, Joie. I only brought a few things with me. This chair and my dead wife’s hope chest are the only two pieces of furniture I own anymore.”
I gape and him and point my finger. “Don’t you dare use Sheila as a sympathy card. That’s so inappropriate.”
“Oh come on. She would have used it against me.”
“It’s true,” Hank pipes up, eyes still closed. “She used to joke about her death all the time. She had a wickedly morbid sense of humor. You know she got me to open my fifty-year-old bottle of Johnny Walker Black, telling me she was gonna die? She was in remission then, and I fell for it.”
“See?” Jack says victoriously. “If Sheila wouldn’t be offended, you’re not allowed to be.”
Staring at him, my mind starts spinning. Despite his wildly inappropriate humor, I love this man with all my heart, and I want this to be his home, too. I want him to feel like he belongs here with me. Like he can’t wait to come home to me. And darn him for playing on my sympathies, because it works. I hate that Sheila’s gone and all that’s left of her is in that trunk. As ridiculous as it sounds, the more I’ve learned about her, the more I know I would have liked her, and I have no intentions of ever disrespecting her. Even if Jack has a morbid sense of humor sometimes.
My face must show everything I’m thinking because he’s trying really hard not to smile.
“Please? For me?”
Throwing my hands in the air, I give up with an “Argh! Fine!”
“Thanks, babe!” He leans in for a kiss, but his lips end up on my palm instead when I hold up my hand.
“Wait.”
“What?” he asks, looking confused.
“Here we go,” Hank mumbles under his breath. This time it’s me shooting daggers at him.
Swiveling back to Jack, I give him my idea. “The key to a healthy relationship is knowing when to compromise, right?”
Jack shrugs. “Yeah, I guess.”
“I think it should go in the third bedroom.”
He gapes. “How am I supposed to use it when I’m watching TV if it’s not in the living room?”
“I was thinking about that. I know we were talking about replacing my TV with yours because it’s a bit newer. Instead, what if we make that third bedroom into a man-cave, of sorts?”
His eyebrows shoot up at the idea and I know I’ve got his attention. But I can also see the gears shifting in his brain. “A man cave, huh?”
“Yep. I use it as an office now, but the only thing I really need is the desk and maybe the book shelf. And there’s plenty of space to put your memorabilia and stuff up.”
He scratches at the scruff on his jaw. “I’d get my chair and the TV and be able to hang up some of my sports stuff?”
“Yep,” I say again.
Rubbing the back of his neck, he tosses out his own compromise. “Can I get a mini-fridge for beer?”
“Done.” I throw out my hand so we can shake on it. He takes it and flashes me a huge grin.
“We’re nailing this living together thing already.”
Then he pulls me into his arms and kisses the living daylights out of me, while Hank keeps his eyes closed and pretends not to notice.