“I can’t believe we live here now. It still doesn’t seem real.” My eyes scan the living room.
“If someone had told me I would be living with you—let alone dating you—two months ago, I would have either laughed in their face or punched them . . . either one.” He smiles and takes my face between his hands.
“Well, aren’t you sweet?” I tease and put my hands on his sides. “It’s a relief, though, to have our own space. No more parties, no more roommates and community showers,” I say.
“Our own bed,” he adds with a wiggle of his eyes. “We will need to get a few things, dishes and such.”
I touch the back of my hand to his forehead. “Are you feeling okay?” I smile. “You’re being awfully cooperative today.”
He brushes my hand aside, then gives the back of it a little kiss. “I just want to make sure you are pleased with everything here. I want you to feel at home . . . with me.”
“And what about you? Do you feel at home here?” I ask him.
“Surprisingly enough, yes,” he answers, nodding, and looks around the room.
“We should go get my stuff. I don’t have much but a few books and my clothes,” I say.
He waves his arms in the air as if he has performed some sort of magic trick. “Already done.”
“What?” I ask.
“I brought all of your belongings from your room; they are in your trunk,” he explains.
“How did you know I would sign? What if I hated the apartment?” I smile. I do wish I had had the chance to say goodbye to Steph and the room that I called home for three months, but I’ll see her again soon.
“Because if you wouldn’t have liked this one, I would have found one that you did,” he answers confidently.
“Okay . . . Well, what about your stuff?”
“We can get it tomorrow. I have clothes in my trunk.”
“What is with that, anyway?” He always has so many clothes in his car.
“I don’t know, really. I guess you just never know when you will need clothes.” He shrugs. “Let’s go to the store and get all the shit we need for the kitchen and some food,” Hardin says.
“Okay.” My stomach has been full of butterflies since I stepped into the apartment. “Can I drive your car again?” I ask when we get down to the lobby.
“I don’t know . . .” He smiles.
“You painted my car without my permission. I think I have earned the privilege.” I hold out my hands and he rolls his eyes before dropping the keys into them.
“So you like my car, then? It drives nicely, doesn’t it?”
I give him a coy look. “It’s okay.”
I lie; I love the way it drives.
Our building could not be located in a better place; we’re close to multiple stores, coffee shops, and even a park. We end up going to Target, and soon the cart is full of dishes, pots and pans, cups, and other things I didn’t know we would need but seem useful. We save the groceries for another trip since we already have so much stuff. I volunteer to go grocery shopping after my internship tomorrow if Hardin makes me a list of things he likes to eat. The best thing so far about living together is all the small details about Hardin that I would have otherwise never known. He’s so stingy with information, it’s nice to get some of out him without a fight. Even though we spend almost every night together, by just buying things for our place, I’m finding out things that I would have never known. Like: he likes cereal with no milk; even the idea of mismatching cups drives him insane; he uses two different types of toothpaste, one in the morning and one at night, and he doesn’t know why, he just does; and he would rather mop the floor a hundred times before having to load a dishwasher. We agree that I will always do the dishes as long as he mops the floor.
We bicker back and forth in front of the cashier when it comes time to pay. I know he had to put a deposit down for the apartment, so I want to cover our Target haul. But he refuses to let me pay for anything except cable and groceries. At first, he offered to let me pay for the electricity, which he declined to tell me was already included in the rent until I found the proof on the lease. The lease. I have a lease, with a man that I’m moving in with my freshman year of college. That’s not crazy, right?
Hardin glares at the woman when she takes my debit card and I give her props because she swipes my card without even acknowledging his attitude. I want to laugh in victory, but he is already irritated and I don’t want the night to be ruined.
Hardin sulks until we get back to the apartment, and I stay quiet because I find it amusing. “We might have to make two trips down here to get all the stuff,” I tell him.
“That’s another thing: I would rather carry one hundred bags than make two trips,” he says and finally smiles.
We still end up having to take two trips because the dishes are just too heavy. Hardin’s irritation grows, but so does my humor.
We put all the dishes away into the cabinets and Hardin orders a pizza. The polite person in me can’t help but offer to pay for it, which earns me a glare and a middle finger. I laugh and put all the trash into the box the dishes came in. They weren’t joking when they said the apartment came furnished—it has everything we could need, a trash can, even a shower curtain.
“The pizza will be here in thirty minutes. I am going to go down and get your stuff,” he says.
“I’ll come, too,” I say and follow him out.
He has put my things into two boxes and a trash bag, which makes me cringe but I stay quiet. Grabbing a handful of T-shirts and a pair of jeans out of his trunk, he shoves them into the trash bag with my clothes.