Calvin Sumner

     Mom is looking at me funny, which is inhibiting the organized chaos that is packing up my whole life into boxes. Again. It feels like I just unpacked these boxes. Mostly because I had, just months ago. When I'd started looking at apartments, she questioned why I was even unpacking to begin with.

     "Because mom," I had said, my tone haughty. I'd been taking a tone with her for months now, but the tone has since dropped. "I am physically incapable of living out of a box. You raised me. You should know this."

     After some amount of staring, I finally go, "Just say you think this is too soon and you don't approve, so we can have the ensuing argument and I can get back to focusing on this."

     She frowns. "Why do you assume I'm always going to say the worst thing?"

     "I don't know. Probably because you do always say the worst thing."

     "I say the honest thing. And I honestly think this is great and I'm happy for you. For you both. But can I not be sad my only son is moving out?"

     "You don't think it's like not in my best interest to go from living with you to living with him?"

     She looks at me questioningly. "Do you think that?"

     "No," I say perfectly honest. Mainly because I don't. At all. "So I took Dres with me to look at this apartment a few months ago and he was like imagine your ideal home. And I imagined..."

     "His place?"

     I flush, looking down at my hands. "I just think there's a reason I didn't vibe with any of the one hundred apartments I saw. Maybe it was a sign."

     "Hmm, well, just know living with someone is not easy. It's different living with family because you can get away with a lot. Living with your partner can strain the relationship if you aren't careful."

     "See, now that sounded like you disapproving."

     She laughs. "I'm not disapproving. I'm just saying you are not the most perfect person to live with, and I'm sure Dres isn't either. So you need to be patient and understanding and compromise. These would've been great lessons to learn dorming. In college. Which you failed to do."

     "But then I would've missed out on having you as a roommate."

     "Yeah because there's nothing I loved more than cleaning your vomit out of my kitchen sink."

     "It was one time," I exclaim. "Look, Dres is going to be here after work and I'm supposed to have everything downstairs and ready. I've got like an hour to finish this."

     She holds up her hands stepping backwards into the hall. "Okay, okay. Are you guys staying for dinner?"

     "Sure," I say mostly to appease her. I grab my phone, shooting a text to Dres to let him know. He thumbs up's my message. It blows my mind that just six months ago communication between us was so poor I probably would've boomeranged my phone out the window if he'd thumbs up'd my message.

     Dinner is long. Even though my mom and Dres have been cavorting behind my back for months, they're acting like this is the first time they're truly having a conversation since we moved back here. She's telling stories about California that are really not all that interesting and he's hanging on her every word. At one point I tell her Dres doesn't want to hear about how she separated twins and Dres gives me that look that's one part scolding, one part soothing.

     Finally, I decide to just leave them in the kitchen swapping war stories, and start moving my boxes into Dres's truck. That's where Dres finds me a bit later, outside his truck wrestling a box past my shoulders. He looks at me with this strangely amused expression.

     "You could've waited. I would've done it."

     He steps forward, lifting the box the rest of the way so it's stacked on another in the bed of his truck. He does it before I can even protest, moving the weight easy. It's not all that surprising and I'll be remiss if I don't lean back and stare at him in all his muscular glory. If the younger version of me could see him now. I don't know that I would've survived working at Weston's. I probably would've resigned my first day. Forget Adonis, Dres looks like he swallowed Adonis.

     Dres turns to me, staring again. There's lots of staring going on these days. My mom, him, people at the grocery store. I didn't get a tattoo on my face and forget, so I don't know what's up with all the staring.

     Since it's still within my nature to make a point, I say, "I could've done it." It's a very delayed point to make. Dres gives me a wry look. "I have muscles now, you know. Big muscles. Muscles that can carry their own boxes."

    "Oh, I'm fully aware," Dres is saying but I'm unfocused as he steps into my space, backing me up against the side of his truck. We're on the street side so if my mom looked out the window she wouldn't even see us. But if a car drove by, we might end up nailed.

     Totally worth it, I think as he grasps my face, tipping my head back so he can duck down and kiss me. It's not a friendly kiss, not in the slightest, his mouth open and wet as his tongue slips over mine.

    I grip his wrists, hanging on but not moving his hands out of the way. There was a time, so many years ago now, where we stood outside my house like this and I begged to be kissed with this intensity, this fervor.

     So I pull away, and I say, "Why Dres, you're getting ahead of yourself."

     He doesn't miss a beat, smiling, as he says, "Really? Because I feel exactly in line with myself."

     We both laugh, and it's a soft sound, even combined, in the night. "Okay," I say after a moment. "It's freezing. Let's go say goodbye to my mom so we can go home."

     Dres pauses at that. He hasn't moved anything but his mouth off of mine. His eyes are still closed and he nudges my nose with his. "Home?" he repeats.

     "Yeah," I say, flushing. My eyes dart along his face. He's smiling. He looks at peace. "Home," I repeat just as he kisses me again.

     When we get home, Dres parks on the street, so I take the driveway. It's small, can only fit one car. He doesn't have a garage, either. When I get out, I'm confused by it. Like he's reading my mind, he walks over holding one of my boxes and says, "I don't want you parking on the street."

     "Why?" I ask as I walk over to get a box. He waits for me before leading the way up to the house.

     "Because it's not safe. Because your cars new."

     "Not safe...for my car? Or for me?"

     "Both," he responds, setting down the box to unlock the front door. "I just want you to have the driveway, okay? I don't want you coming in at one in the morning and looking for street parking."

     "Okay, okay," I say, placating mostly. Our first fight should not be over who's parking in the driveway. It should be over who drank the last of the milk and didn't throw out the carton. Who left old coffee beans in the grinder. Who bleached the load of darks. Who am I kidding, the answer is me in all of those scenarios.

     "Listen," Dres says suddenly and he's dropped the box by the door, stepping as close as he's going to get with my box still between us. "I feel like I have to — no, like I want to give you everything? The driveway, all of my closet space, free reign in the kitchen. Uhm, maybe not that last one. But. I want you to be happy here."

     I furrow my brow. "Of course I'm going to be happy. I'm with you. I don't care about driveways and closet space. We could live in a box. A box with a TV, though, preferably. I am still a video gamer — yes, yes, mock all you want."

     Dres is smiling but it's small, forced. "I want this to feel like home to you. So if you want to, I don't know, rearrange furniture, or buy all new furniture, let's do it."

     I step out of the way so I can put my box down and then I fling myself at Dres. He stumbles back but his arms wrap around me. "We don't need new furniture, but we do need to christen every room. As per the first commandment of Moving In Together. Deuteronomy."

     "Christen every room?" he repeats back, his tone almost dismal.

     I nod enthusiastically. "Starting with yours and my favorite." I wiggle my eyebrows suggestively.

     "Not the kitchen," he says the same time I say, "The kitchen."