Overdue - 34

We’d only been together for three weeks when he asked me to move in with him. It was the night before Thanksgiving and his fortieth birthday. I was excited because it would be a rare day off. He was stressed because we were cooking for Lynn; he’d convinced her to come to his house. From me, he’d requested no presents and no fuss, but I had purchased a small gift and planned to make a little fuss. Only things I knew he could handle and would enjoy.

We had already fallen into a steadfast, comforting rhythm. I loved tucking in beside him in bed at the end of the day, knowing we had the whole quiet night ahead of us. We had quickly learned how to sleep beside each other, understood when the other person needed space and when they didn’t, and had discovered that we both took pleasure in snuggling close in the early morning, when it was still dark and cold outside but our bodies had stored up a full night’s worth of warmth, our limbs tangling against and on top of and underneath each other.

That night, I was wearing one of his T-shirts and nothing else, and we were reading, bathed in the same content afterglow as the characters in old movies who made love and then smoked cigarettes. We liked reading the good passages out loud to each other. It was gratifying to be able to share our books with a partner again. Macon set down his hardcover in his lap, and I thought he was about to preface another selection. His reading voice was first-rate, deep and steady. But when I looked over, I was surprised to find that he looked nervous.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said. “I do want a birthday present.”

I lowered my novel and raised my brows. “Oh?”

“Move in with me.”

“Oh,” I breathed.

“You’ll have to leave the studio soon, and apartments are expensive. This would ease your financial burden.” The offer felt familiar. Despite framing it as a gift, he was speaking in his unsentimental librarian voice, and he wasn’t looking at me. I wanted sentimentality and ardor.

“You’re practically living here anyway,” he went on. “You’re already sharing the responsibilities and the housework.”

I stared him down until I forced his eyes to meet mine. His shyness had returned. “You know,” I said, “this is the second time you’ve asked me to move in with you.”

He swallowed. “Say yes this time.”

“Why did you ask me the first time?”

“I wanted to help you out.”

“Was that all?”

He gave me a smile tinged with remembered heartbreak. “No. I was hoping you’d fall madly in love with your new roommate.”

“And why are you asking me now?”

His hands trembled as he removed my book from my hands so he could take them into his. “Because I want you here. All the time. Just like this.”

I squeezed his hands back. “Now that’s a good reason.”

We hadn’t told his coworkers we were dating yet. The next morning, when Alyssa sent a Grim Reaper birthday GIF to Macon in their work group text, he sent them back a selfie where I was smushed up against him, kissing his cheek.

Got what I wanted this year , he wrote.

Alyssa, Sue, and Elijah all lost their shit, which was tremendously satisfying.

I spent the day assisting Macon in the kitchen. We were using his family’s recipes, not mine, which was fine by me. I preferred his cooking, plus he had strong menu opinions because of his birthday occasionally landing on Thanksgiving. (“The timing makes it difficult for me to dislike a holiday that I objectively disapprove of,” he once told me.)

Before he left to pick up his mom, I called my parents. I usually FaceTimed them, but I already knew that would be too much for Macon.

“We’re both here, shucking corn,” I told them.

“Hello.” Macon managed to project confidence into the speaker despite his trepidation. “Happy Thanksgiving.”

“Ah, the new old boyfriend,” my dad said.

Macon swiveled toward me in alarm.

I muted the phone. “Not your age. I don’t think. Old as in we’ve known each other a long time.” Unmuted it.

“I’m not sure if you remember,” Macon said, “but we met once, the last time you were in town.”

“I remember,” my mom said. “And Ingrid has spoken so much about you over the years.”

He studied me, pleased, as he plucked off the corn silk.

I gave him a bashful smile and shrugged. “So I have good news,” I said to my parents. “You’ll have somewhere to stay when you come visit me this January. I have a new place with an extra room.”

Macon’s eyes widened as if to say, This is not how you’re telling them, right?

I shrugged again as my parents cheered and congratulated me.

“It’s Macon’s house,” I said. “I’m moving in.”

The ear of corn fell from his hands. He looked like he was dying. I walked my phone back to the bedroom as my concerned parents stuttered and asked a lot of questions, the main one being: After only three weeks?

“Three weeks plus sort of a whole summer plus five years,” I said.

Macon was hovering in the doorway when I hung up half an hour later. “At least they called me your boyfriend.”

“You are my boyfriend.” We had never actually said the word before.

“I know. I’m just glad they know, too. I like people knowing.”

“They definitely know now.”

“I cannot believe you told them like that.”

“It is okay for them to stay here in January, right?”

“Of course.”

“Okay. Thanks. I realized belatedly that I didn’t ask.”

“You don’t have to ask me. They’re your parents.”

It was a good response, yet I felt an odd pang that he didn’t add, “And it’s your house.” But I doubted anything was meant by the exclusion, so I didn’t allow my thoughts to linger there. “Speaking of parents,” I said.

“Yep.” He grabbed his wallet and keys from the top of the dresser. “I’m gonna bring her in through the kitchen door, okay? The living room might freak her out.”

I was taken aback but kept it to myself. I knew his mom was afraid of empty spaces, but the living room wasn’t exactly empty . He’d painted the bookshelves the previous weekend, but they were curing, so they still didn’t have any books on them. And he still didn’t have a couch. But Edmond’s blankets and toys were in there, and the cat tree had been installed. Macon and his neighbor had done an impressive job. The tree was tremendous, spanning floor to ceiling in one corner of the room, smooth limbs and branches. A perfect foresty addition.

I set the table, peeled and boiled the potatoes, and put the homemade rolls into the oven. His errand shouldn’t have taken more than ten minutes. My anxiety grew. It was important to him that she come. He wanted her to see all the work we’d done and wanted to remind her that his house was safe. I also suspected that he wanted my first longer interaction with her to be on his territory. I think that felt safer for him .

Forty minutes later, they arrived. I watched him lead her through the garden. Although her voice was frail, she had never looked it in the handful of times that we’d met. She did now as she kept stopping and squeezing her eyes closed. She clung to him tightly. Patiently, he guided her to the back door, and I opened it to greet them.

“Mom, you remember my girlfriend, Ingrid.”

Of course she remembered me. I could tell he just wanted to call me his girlfriend to complete the saying-words-out-loud circle. My stomach warmed with pleasure.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Lynn,” I said.

She was dressed in a nice blouse and jewelry, which made me grateful that I had put on something nicer, too. (Macon was wearing his normal clothes, but I’d instinctively not trusted this to be the dress code.) She was pale and agitated and didn’t speak. Macon shot me a frustrated, apologetic look, and I touched a reassuring hand to his back. He led her inside and straight to the table. “Why don’t you rest for a few minutes?” he said to her. “We’ll be eating soon.”

He joined me in the kitchen. I’m sorry , he mouthed.

I brightened my expression. It’s okay!

I brought her a glass of water and then gave her some space to recover. It didn’t escape my notice that he’d sat her in a corner where she couldn’t see the living room. He was mashing the potatoes, perhaps too aggressively, when I returned. “I’ll finish that up and carve the turkey,” I said. He’d gotten a small bird because she was coming. “Why don’t you go grill the corn?”

I love you , he mouthed.

“I love you, too,” I said, cheerfully and aloud.

One side of his mouth lifted in a smile, and he shook his head, but in an affectionate way, as if he was remembering how much he liked me.

I preened.

His head was still shaking as he went back outside. I resisted checking on him and Lynn, figuring they both needed time to regroup, and finished what needed to be done. When I carried the gravy boat to the table (Macon owned a gravy boat! Cory and I had definitely not owned a gravy boat), Lynn’s color and breathing had both returned to normal.

“You’re clearly a better guest than I am, Ingrid,” she said.

“Nonsense.” I gave her a friendly smile, only belatedly snagging on the word guest . He’d told her this morning that I was moving in. He said she’d been happy for us. But I couldn’t dwell on this because I needed to make sure she was comfortable. “We’re really glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here, too. It was so obvious my son liked you.”

I laughed. “I wish he’d told me sooner.”

The back door opened, and we heard him reenter. “Oh, he’s the same boy he’s always been,” Lynn said. “Waiting for the girl to ask him out first.”

“ Mom .” He dropped the plate of corn loudly onto the counter, where it rattled. “That conversation stops now, whatever it is.”

Lynn and I grinned at each other, and I returned to the kitchen. Macon gave me an extremely grouchy look, which made me smile even bigger.

“The walls look good,” Lynn called out. “Pretty table, too. And I like the red chairs.”

“Ingrid helped with all of it,” he reminded her.

“Obviously,” Lynn said, and I laughed.

“You need curtains, though,” she added.

I nodded at Macon like See? as we loaded our three plates with roasted turkey, rosemary stuffing, grilled corn, mashed potatoes, butterhorn rolls, and cranberry sauce with candied ginger and orange zest.

“Oh!” Lynn said.

He stilled. “Everything okay in there?”

“I forgot you have a cat now.”

“He won’t hurt you.”

“No, I know. I’m fine. Bonnie used to have a calico, do you remember? Used to run around here. She took it with her when she married Jim.”

“Snickers,” he said.

“That’s right.”

A shadow fell across Macon’s face. I placed my hand atop his and let it rest. He and Lynn had been arguing recently about Bonnie’s memorial service. His mom, unsurprisingly, wanted to hold it in Ridgetop. But Bonnie’s life had been in Durham.

When we entered the dining room, Edmond was sitting upright in one of the empty chairs. Macon tossed a piece of turkey to him.

“Did you remember to turn off the grill?” Lynn asked.

Macon sighed. “Yes, I turned off the grill.”

“Look at that.” She buoyed again at the plate set before her. “You’re such a good cook. Isn’t my son the most talented chef?”

“He is,” I said.

“Ingrid helped, too, Mom.”

I smiled and made a gesture to Lynn that said, Only a little . “I’m better at decorating— Oh!” I sprang back out of my seat. “Your present.”

Macon started to protest, but I bounded off and fetched the bag from where I’d hidden it in Edmond’s room. “Happy birthday slash Thanksgiving.”

“I told you—”

“Hush and open her gift,” Lynn said.

He did. It was a pair of candlesticks made by the same ceramicist who made the mugs for Bildungsroman and two spiraled beeswax tapers dipped by a local chandler.

“I like them,” Macon said, sounding surprised.

His mom and I laughed, and I lifted his chin and kissed him.

“Thank you,” he said.

“Special occasions require candles,” I said, dimming the lights and producing a matchbook from my pocket.

“Careful with those,” Lynn said.

“Mom,” Macon said. But after blowing out the match, I ran it under the tap to show her that I was safe and trustworthy.

The meal was delicious, the tapers honeyed the air, and Lynn turned out to be a lively conversationalist. She was sharp and curious and well read, and I was relieved we didn’t run out of things to talk about. It was easy for me to imagine all the meals and matches and candles that we might burn through together at this table. I hadn’t forgotten about her probably needing to move in with Macon someday. There was room for us both here, and I hoped he saw it, too.

Everything was going well until dessert. Macon and I were in the kitchen. I was plating the pumpkin pie, and he was whipping the cream when his mother announced that she needed to use the bathroom. I was surprised when he tensed.

“Macon,” she said again, anxiously.

“I heard you. That’s fine.”

I set down the pie server (Macon owned a pie server!) and went to her. She was wavering on the threshold to the living room with large and frightened eyes.

“Lynn? May I escort you to the bathroom?”

She didn’t answer, so I placed a gentle hand on her arm. I tried to guide her forward, but her limbs were stiff. When I tried again, she shrieked.

Macon hurried toward us. “It’s okay. It’s the same house it always was.”

“I can’t,” she said. “I can’t.”

“The bathroom is just over there.”

“I can’t! I want to go home.”

“You can do it,” he said. “I’ll walk you there.”

“Take me home! I want to go home!”

Tears were rolling down her cheeks, and I backed against the wall as she flew into hysterics. “Mom, it’s okay,” he said.

“Take me home,” she screamed.

“I’m taking you home.” He glanced at me frantically, and I bolted for his keys and wallet. She shrieked again, perhaps because I had crossed into the empty space. The bare branches of the towering cat tree threw sinister shadows across the walls. “Wait,” he called after me. “I still have them in my pockets.” And then, “I didn’t put them down, Mom. Just like I promised, okay? My keys are right here.” As he led her out of the house, he coached her breathing. “Do what I do. We’re going to make our exhalations longer than our inhalations.”

I flashed back to sobbing on the library’s restroom floor, Macon crouched beside me. How many times in his life had he spoken those exact words? When had it started? Still in shock, I scraped our plates and loaded them into the dishwasher. I pictured him as a child, how scary it must have been—and then how humiliating once he grew older. I thought about his aunt again, better understanding the support and freedom she must have provided for him.

When he finally returned, I was sitting at the table with two slices of pie.

“Happy birthday,” I said quietly.

“One night.” He slumped into the chair beside me. “I was hoping we could get through one night.”

“You got her here. We had a wonderful dinner. That’s a good start.”

“I knew the living room would freak her out.”

“You said that, and I didn’t believe you,” I admitted. “But we’ll get a couch. And we’ll fill the shelves. We’ll fill the whole room up and invite her back.”

“I miss Bonnie.”

My heart broke. “I know.”

“I wish you could have met her.”

Edmond sprang onto my lap, and the candlelight flickered.

“It’s not like she would have been my Bonnie anyway. That Bonnie was already gone.” Darkness weighted his shoulders. “My mom is all I have left now.”

I lifted one of Edmond’s paws and waved it at him. “Not all.”

He took us in. A smile almost cracked through.

“I’m sorry I made it worse,” I said, speaking in a voice and lifting both front paws to gesticulate like a hand puppet. “But I’ll learn how to help. I’ll read up on it, and you can teach me.”

Macon didn’t laugh. “That’s not necessary. And you have nothing to apologize for.”

I think he was trying to absolve me from any responsibility, but it deflated me. If we were to all live here together someday, I needed to be able help her. To help him. It suddenly felt as if I was trying to push my way into his life, as opposed to both of us moving forward together. Yet this was also exactly where I wanted to be—with him, in this house.

Edmond had also wanted to belong to Macon and get inside this house. As he yanked his paws out of my grasp, I tried to hold on to him— engulfed my whole body around him—but he squirmed off my lap and tore across the room.

It was only confusing because all of this was new, I assured myself. Once I settled in, everything else would feel settled, too.