Ryan’s grandfather passed away three years ago, only a year after his wife, and left Ryan his home along with every piece of furniture, every dish in the cabinet, every picture on the wall. Oh, and a hefty sum of cash too.
From the way Ryan tells it, one day he dropped by to check on his grandfather, only to find he had died peacefully in his sleep, and then a week later Ryan was moving in. The only possessions he brought with him were his clothes, toiletries, and a new mattress for the bedroom. Ryan probably would have made room for an ugly second-hand couch . . . if I had one.
His street is lined with large oak trees, their branches shading every inch of sidewalk. The neighbors are all older, more established, and love to tell me how they’ve watched “that sweet boy” grow up since he was a baby. This is the kind of house you live in when you’ve finally made it. When you’ve had a couple of kids and the pressing fear of not being able to pay your bills lessens and no longer has the ability to suffocate you.
But it’s too big for Ryan. It’s two stories with a wide front porch and big backyard, white with dark green shutters, manicured flower beds, and a brick path that leads to the front door. It would take several minutes to walk through if you needed to check every room—big enough that someone could come in the carport door and you wouldn’t hear it from the main bedroom.
I back my car into the driveway to shorten the distance I’ll have to carry the boxes. It’s not until I pop the rear hatch that I notice Ryan’s neighbors to the left, Ben and Maggie Rogers, are watching me from their front porch. Right on schedule. Their morning walk coincides with our departure for work, and their evening cocktails on the porch are already in progress when we arrive back here at the end of the day. But that’s the general vibe of this street since most everyone is retired or close to it.
Mrs. Rogers tracks me as I lift the first box from the back of my 4Runner. This clear indicator that I’ve become more than just an overnight guest will be passed along to the rest of the street when she makes her rounds during their walk tomorrow morning. The Rogerses take Neighborhood Watch to the next level.
They are silent spectators as I unload box after box. Ryan is pulling into the driveway just as I grab the last one. He jogs over the second he’s out of
his car to relieve me of it.
“Here, let me get that,” he says.
I reach up on tiptoes and kiss him, the box keeping us from touching anywhere but our lips.
Before we head inside, he greets the Rogerses. “Evening!”
Mrs. Rogers stands up and walks to the edge of the porch, putting her as close as she can get without falling into her azalea bushes. “Y’all look busy over there!” she hollers back.
With his arms full, he can only nod toward me. “Evie’s moving in.” His big grin sends a little flutter through me, and I can’t help the equally big grin that spreads across my face.
Mrs. Rogers throws a told you so look at her husband as her suspicions are confirmed. “Oh. Well, I guess you young people skip over a few important steps these days.” She adds a stifled laugh to soften the jab.
Ryan is undeterred. “Our steps may be in a different order but we’ll hit them all.”
The breathy gasp escapes my lips before I can stop it, and I force myself not to read too much into this banter tossed between them.
Mr. Rogers joins his wife on the edge of the porch. “Well, we need to welcome Evie to the neighborhood properly, then! Join us for afternoon cocktails soon.” If Mr. Rogers is bothered by the latest development, he hides it well.
“We’d love to. Maybe next week?” Ryan answers for us.
Mr. Rogers’s smile is genuine when he says, “I just got a new whiskey smoker I’ve been itching to use.”
Ryan laughs. “It’s been a while since I’ve had one of your Old Fashioneds. I’m looking forward to it.” Then he knocks his shoulder lightly against mine to get me moving toward the house.
Finally, we’re inside, and Ryan sets the box down with the others in the wide back hall.
“I went ahead and brought my clothes and shoes over. How was your day?”
He shrugs. “It was long. I would rather have spent it packing with you.”
Ryan is always tight lipped about what he does on Thursdays. And while he joked this morning about skipping work today, we both know he never would.
What he does on Thursdays is important.
He surveys the boxes. The empty ones the guys left on the sidewalk for me this morning are now filled with the only items I truly own and will keep here. He pulls at a lock of hair that’s fallen out of my messy bun, twirling it around his finger. “Did you get a lot done at your apartment?”
I give him a big smile. “I did! I’m ready for that moving truck on Saturday, but truthfully, we could probably manage with just our two cars. I ended up giving every piece of furniture away. There’s only eight or ten boxes left,” I say, kicking the box nearest me.
Confusion and a little sadness cross his face. “Evie.” He says my name softly. “You gave it all away?”
My thumb runs across his forehead, erasing the creases there. “You live in a home where every single piece of furniture holds meaning for you. A memory. You grew up around these things so they’re a part of you. It wasn’t the same with my stuff. They were pieces of necessity. Somewhere to sit so I wasn’t on the floor and nothing more than that. It was easy to give them away.”
The furniture I’m talking about might not have been given away today, but the feelings are true nonetheless.
Ryan slips his phone out of his front pocket and makes a call. I watch him, wondering what he’s up to.
“Hi, this is Ryan Sumner. Evie Porter scheduled your services for Saturday but I need to cancel.”
With his free hand, he pulls me close, tucking me against his side. He listens to whatever they are saying, then thanks them before disconnecting the call.
“Let’s go get the rest. Right now. I’ll do all the work since I’m sure you’re beat. Give me five minutes to change.”
I open my mouth to protest but he seals his lips over mine, my words slipping away. He kisses me long enough that we both consider changing our immediate plans, but then he pulls away and darts out of the room.
“Five minutes!” he yells as he disappears deep inside the house.
I lean back against the wall, checking my watch. It’s six thirty. The office at Lake View Apartments is locked up tight and the woman working that desk is gone for the night.
Ryan follows me back to the apartment in his Tahoe. I’m glad I’m not in the car with him when he realizes where we’re going, but at least the idea that I was embarrassed about where I live rings true.
He parks next to me and is out of his car in a shot. Before I get my door open, he’s at the side of my car. “You should have told me this is where you lived.” He’s scoping out the parking lot as if he’s trying to locate the danger he knows exists here.
Latching on to his belt loops, I pull him closer. “This is exactly why I didn’t tell you.” I move my right hand into his left one and he grips it tightly as I pull him toward the stairwell. He notices every busted light on the way up.
The lock gives a bit easier this time, and the second the door swings open Ryan has us inside and the door shut behind us. He paces the apartment with his hands on his hips. I hate to admit I like his growling prowl of the room, and the protective instinct vibrating through him is as foreign as it is welcome.
I drop down by the stack of books and start putting them in the empty box I left close by. “Forgot I had a few things left to pack.”
Ryan moves to the counter and picks up the closest perfume bottle. Holding it up, he inspects it from top to bottom, then does the same to the other three lined up next to it. “Do you collect these?”
I beam at him. “I do!” And then start to tell him I collect them because they reminded me of my grandmother, but the lie dies on the tip of my tongue. Instead, I say, “I saw a picture of one and I didn’t realize how gorgeous . . . and how different they could be. It stuck with me. Started collecting them after that. The purple one is my favorite.” It’s always best to keep the lie as close to the truth and say as little as possible, but this feels more than that. I don’t want to lie to him if I don’t have to.
There is no mention that his mother collects perfume bottles as well, or the fact that I have something in common with her, and I won’t analyze how it makes me feel that he doesn’t let me know this is something we share. Ryan sets the bottle back down and begins opening drawers in the kitchen and then staring at the fridge. He plucks off one of the pictures of us and studies it. It’s a selfie we took not long after we met. It was cold outside and we’re both bundled up in front of the small fire pit in his backyard. I had brought over ingredients to make s’mores and we had bits of marshmallow and chocolate on our faces. In the picture, I am sitting in his lap and we are smiling big, cheek to cheek.
“That was a good night,” he says.
“It was,” I answer. It was the first night I spent at his house. The first time I slept in his bed. He’s still staring at the picture, and I can’t help but wonder what’s going through his mind while he thinks back on that night.
Finally, he pulls down all the pics and menus and stacks them on the counter before opening the fridge. “Still have a few things in here,” he calls. “Oh, shoot! Thought I cleaned it all out. Can you just throw it in the
trash?”
I hear him gathering the containers, then opening the cabinet under the sink where the trash can hides. He dumps them on top of some take-out boxes and other items I found in one of the outdoor trash containers. Ryan pulls the can out and says, “Anything else need to go in here before I take it to the dumpster?”
I frown while I think about it. “Yeah, there may be a few things in the bathroom that need to go.”
He follows me down the hall into the bathroom. I pluck the worn-down soap out of the shower and toss it inside the can. Then I pick up the shampoo and conditioner, testing the weight as if I’m trying to decide if there is enough worth keeping, then toss them in too.
Ryan is digging around in the drawers and cabinets, checking each space. He’s more thorough than I thought he would be.
Once we’re back out in the main room, he peeks inside a few of the boxes I’d filled earlier in the day. But then it’s more than a peek. It’s almost as if he’s searching for something.
After he’s riffled through three boxes I ask, “Are you looking for something?”
His head comes up and his eyes catch mine. A small smile forces his dimples to appear. “Just trying to learn everything there is to know about you.”
The words are ones that any girl would love to hear, but they feel weighted. Heavy. And I wonder if he is choosing his words as carefully as I choose mine.
