“It felt like home, even though I wasn’t here for very long,” he replies, setting our suitcases down.
And then I spy the plant I brought him when he was in the hospital.
It sits on a stand to the left of the entry door in front of a beveled, decorative glass inlay. When I purchased the trailing pothos, it was in a small container with a few healthy vines starting to cascade over the edge. Now it sits in a ceramic pot at least five times bigger than the original, and the leafy vines pour over the sides and onto the floor where they puddle in a mass.
“That needs to sit higher,” I advise as I move closer to examine it.
Baden sighs. “Yeah… I know. I did a little reading up on it.”
“We can hang it in the corner of your bedroom,” I suggest, and Baden chuckles. I look at him with curiosity. “What’s so funny?”
Baden moves closer to the plant, plucking off a dead leaf. “It’s just that seven months ago, I was in a bed paralyzed. You brought me a plant, and I was mired in misery. Now we’re roommates, and this plant will be hanging in your house. It seems very full circle.”
“It does,” I murmur in agreement.
Most of the time, my relationship with Baden is so easygoing and natural, it almost feels like we’ve been friends for years. But then some moments—like now—we connect over a sentiment or a memory, and the surrounding air seems to go still. It can feel heavy, but never oppressive. As if there’s a weight to the bond that is pressing down on me like a message, as if I should recognize something deeper to what we are, and the universe is trying to clue me in.
It happens now as we stare at each other, caught up in how fate has brought us together, and how over time, has kept us together.
I break the moment because sometimes—like now—I feel like I might succumb to whatever this feeling is and start babbling about things that could become awkward.
So I look around and ask, “Do I get the dime tour?”
“I’ll give you the quarter one,” he says with a laugh, and picks up the suitcases again.
I follow Baden up the stairs, and he puts my carry-on in the first guest bedroom on the left. “This has its own bathroom.”
“Fancy,” I tease as I look at the tastefully decorated room filled with transitional-style furniture and coordinated bedding and drapery done in soothing blues, silvers, and cream. I’m guessing he had a decorator as the pairings are perfect. “I bet it sucks to leave this and live in my much smaller, much older home, huh?”
“Doesn’t suck at all,” he assures me, then looks at his watch. “Want something to eat or drink?”
I shake my head. “No time. We have work to do.”
“We have time to eat,” he counters. “Certainly time for coffee or water.”
“You have to get going soon,” I remind him. “How about you show me where to start?”
I am, after all, here to help Baden pack. It’s one of the things I insisted upon when I agreed to come to Phoenix. He wanted me to have a relaxing getaway, have fun at the game tonight, and return home refreshed with the knowledge that the trip was as stress-free as he’d promised it would be.
But I want to help him wrap up his life here and get settled in Pittsburgh. It’s tough leaving your things behind and living out of a suitcase.
Baden takes me through the rest of the house, which is as beautifully decorated as the guest bedroom. His master bedroom is on the first floor, done in deeper blues and grays, concurrently masculine and calming.
“Your house is stunning,” I say as he opens the large walk-in closet that holds most of his clothing. It’s primarily what he’s interested in packing up to ship.
“The people I bought it from decorated it, but I liked it well enough,” he replies, rifling through hangers of shirts. He moves to the opposite side and peruses a row of hanging dress pants and suit jackets. “Think I should pack everything?”
“Do you wear everything?” I ask.
“No,” he admits with a guilty smile. “I have a lot of clothes I don’t wear. I should donate most of it.”
“But you don’t have time to sort through it all,” I remind him, tapping my own watch as a reminder. “I say we pack it all, and you can sort through it at your leisure in Pittsburgh.”
Baden smirks, spreading his arms out to indicate the breadth of the closet. “No offense, but I don’t exactly have the same room in my closet at your house for all this.”
“We can put the boxes in the dining room and work from there.” We never eat in the formal dining room, preferring to sit at the cozy table in the kitchen. “If you take a few minutes each day and tackle a box, you can have it knocked out in no time. I can handle getting donated items to the proper place.”