Off Book

Jade

6 MONTHS LATER…

“. . . my heart unto yours is knit . . .” Act II, Scene II

“Trash it.”

“What? No! I had this all four years of college,” Ian says, arms crossed.

“Put it in a storage unit then. We’re not using your ancient, grubby futon as our couch.” I swipe the sweat from my hairline and my top lip with the back of my hand and wipe it on my jean shorts. June in Texas is no joke, and our air-conditioning doesn’t seem to have caught up to us yet.

“Okay, I’ll save it for the next place we move in together,” Ian says with a smirk. He knows he’s lost this battle, and now he’s just taunting me.

“You’re lucky I agreed to move in with you this time,” I say, poking his sternum. He grabs my finger and drags me to him, wrapping his arms around me and kissing me on the nose.

I scrunch my nose at him, and he does it again.

“It was more economical this way,” he says, reiterating the point he made to get us here in the first place.

After reconciling six months ago, Ian and I started talking about summer plans pretty quickly. My instincts to escape and avoid kept kicking in, but Ian was steady and consistent, never pushing me too far and approaching all our conversations about the future with a gentleness that would soften a boulder.

Which is how we landed at a regional theater in Austin, Texas, for a summer production of Cats , Ian as a light tech and apprentice to the designer, me as the costume and makeup designer. There’s potential for some fall shows here too, and we like the idea of staying longer than three months, but not for too long.

When it came time to decide where we would live, Ian floated the idea of us living together. I was hesitant. I’ve never lived with anyone besides my mom and Jessie and Mac—certainly never anyone I’ve been in a relationship with.

“We’d be spending half the amount on rent every month. And we’d be sharing a bed all summer anyway. Might as well do it in the same house. And think of the convenience! We’d have such easy access to each other,” he’d said one night while we ate dinner at the caf before heading to a tech crew meeting for the spring show at MPC.

Which is how I came to be sweating my ass off in a two-bedroom apartment, trying to convince my boyfriend that his grubby futon is killing the vibe.

“Hey, you agreed I could make all the decorating decisions,” I say, poking his chest again.

“What will we use for a couch then?” he asks as if he can out-logic me.

“An actual couch. Or at least an IKEA couch. Something we pick out together.”

“All right, but I get to pick the color.” He scowls at me, and I plant a kiss on his puckered-up lips.

“Nope,” I say.

“All right, you can pick the color.” He says it like he came up with the idea.

“We knew it would end like this. Your efforts were valiant. Now take that cushion to the curb. Better yet, burn it.”

He groans but leaves to haul the futon cushion down to the curb, or maybe to donate it to the dumpster. When he comes back, we order dinner to be delivered to us and get back to work. Ian tackles setting up the bed, and I start in on the boxes.

I start with the kitchen—where Jessie and I always started when we lived together—and the first box is a hard slap of nostalgia. Mac had a ton of kitchen stuff, so when he moved in with me and Jessie, we used his stuff. All of my and Jessie’s stuff was in my mom’s attic, and Jessie said I could take it for me and Ian. But opening this box now, looking at the bright teal utensils that Jessie and I shared for years, a wave of emotion brings tears to my eyes.

I pull out my phone from my pocket, click Jessie’s name in my Favorites list, and put her on speakerphone.

“Hi, bestie,” she says, her voice soothing some of the sadness this box brought up for me.

“I miss you,” I say. “Come to Texas.”

“In June? Do you hate me?”

“I actually love you—that’s why I want you to come here. I’m just opening my kitchen stuff and it’s taking me back to when we lived together, and I don’t want to live with a stinky boy,” I say as Ian walks into the kitchen and to the fridge.

“Hey!” he says, grabbing a water bottle and putting the ice-cold plastic against the back of my neck.

I yelp, surprised at the cold, but it actually feels good. I’m about to ask him for a Diet Coke, but he sets one on the counter. He must have put the drinks in the fridge right when we got here this morning.

That boy.

Always taking care of me.

“Listen, I don’t like it any more than you do,” Jessie says. “Do you think they’d notice if we swapped places?”

“I would,” Mac yells in the background.

“Speaking of swapping places, how is wine country?” I ask.

Jessie and Mac have plans to attend grad school in the fall at Northwestern, but for the summer, they’re staying at Mac’s family’s house in Napa, California. It’s not any farther from me than it would be if they were already in Illinois, but it’s still too far for my liking.

“Oh, you know, terribly ugly. The weather is awful too. And the wine is just too . . . um . . . winey,” she says.

“Jessica Matthews, it is four o’clock in the afternoon. Have you been drinking?”

“It’s actually two o’clock here, and only because we were just at a winery for lunch! You called before my afternoon nap.”

“And here I am, sweating my ass off organizing a cutlery drawer,” I say. “Anyway, did Mac propose yet?”

“Not yet,” she says, and I can hear the smile in her voice. “And if he did, do you really think I’d wait for you to call me to tell you?”

“Honestly, if I’m not there in person for it, I’ll be pissed.”

“Mac would never. Plus, you’ll know before me. He’ll probably call you for your blessing.”

“Damn straight,” I say. “Okay, go enjoy your nap, and I’ll see you later this summer?”

“I am counting the days until Mac and I come see your show.”

I smile, both reminded and comforted that my best friend is only a phone call away. As much as I wish Jessie and I lived closer, the miles between us feel like the least of my worries.

I finish the kitchen and set up both bathrooms with shower curtains, unpacking the boxes for the respective spaces. Separate bathrooms were a stipulation of us moving in together, and fortunately, the rent in Texas fits our budget for a two-bedroom. It’ll be a test for when we go somewhere like New York and have to share a shoebox.

I check on Ian’s progress in the master bedroom. We bought a queen bed for us and put my single bed from undergrad in the second bedroom in case I ever need some space or we have someone come visit. Ian’s got the bed frame built, and he’s made it up with sheets, blankets, and pillows so it looks like a showroom bed.

“Ian, this looks amazing,” I say.

“Are you sure?” he says, standing back to take in the work he’s done. “I’ve never built a bed frame before, and the instructions weren’t great. I have screws left over, and that does not seem like a good thing. It might be better if we let this be a decorative piece. We can sleep on the couch, or I have an air mat?—”

“Ian.” I slip both arms around him, holding him against me.

Ian’s come a long way from the quiet, anxious kid I met last fall, but he still has plenty of moments of lingering anxiety, even over small things, like bed frames. I’m not great at being helpful during those times, but I’m learning.

“You did great,” I say, keeping it simple.

He just nods and plants a kiss on my forehead. “What’s next?” he asks, and I release him. He fiddles with the covers on the bed.

“Kitchen’s done,” I say.

“I can start on the bathrooms,” he offers.

“Those are done too.”

“Damn, McKinney. You’re a machine.”

Ian straightens and holds up his hand for a high-five. When I slap his hand, he grabs me and pulls me in for a kiss.

“Sneaky bastard,” I murmur against his mouth.

“You love me,” he says. I feel his smile against my lips.

“I tolerate you,” I say.

“Same thing.”

Ian grabs one of the boxes near the bedroom door marked “clothes” and carries it to the closet.

“Hey, have you talked to your mom this week?” he asks, and I hear the thud of the box as it hits the floor.

I follow him, standing in the doorway.

“Just once, earlier this week. She’s supposed to be going on a date this week.” I crack each of my knuckles.

Ian looks up at me. “A new guy?” he asks.

“A new guy.”

He knows what this means. A breakup is likely not too far around the corner. She’s been single since last November—the last time I was home. It was her longest stretch of singleness and sobriety that I can remember. My grandmother said she wasn’t going to meetings or anything, but my mom asked me about my meetings and seemed curious.

This potential new relationship means another chance for her to slip back into old habits. It will also be a chance for me to really put everything I’ve been learning into place.

My Adult Children of Alcoholics online group watched me make leaps and bounds last semester. I’ve only missed one meeting in the past six months due to tech week, which is one of those things in theater where it’s impossible to do anything but tech week. I feel steadier than I have my whole life, setting emotional boundaries with my mom, not trying to convince her to go to AA meetings, and, of course, moving farther away than I’ve ever been from her.

The idea of it was terrifying, but between Ian and Jessie, my grandma, my ACA group, and even AA, I felt like I had the support to do what I needed to do: live my own life without being consumed with worry about my mom.

And I’m celebrating seven months sober next week.

The real test will be this new relationship and what happens with her inevitable breakup, and how I’ll handle it from hundreds of miles away.

“Did you tell your group yet?” Ian asks. He means my ACA group.

“You’re the first to know,” I say.

He gives me an encouraging smile. “Definitely let them know too. I’m here to support you, but those people are gold.”

“They really are,” I say, trying to fight a smile.

Ian’s support through all of this has really sealed the deal for me. If I wasn’t convinced about relationships before, now I don’t think someone could convince me out of it. I wouldn’t want to do this—any of it—without Ian.

“All right, enough yapping. Back to work, Davidson,” I say, pointing sternly at Ian.

He salutes me, and I go back to the living room to start sorting through our boxes labeled “miscellaneous.”

Which is, like, twelve boxes. How can everything be miscellaneous?

I sit on the floor with a box cutter and start with a medium-sized box. It should be easy to sort, but upon opening it, it becomes clear that the contents of this box don’t just belong in one spot. They’ll decorate our whole space.

“Ian,” I shout in a casual way, so he doesn’t think it’s an emergency, and within seconds, he appears in the doorway between the bedroom and the living room.

“Yes, my queen?”

“I love when you call me that,” I say, beaming.

“I know,” he says with a smile.

“Come look.” I wave him over, and he joins me, leaning over, hands on his knees.

I pull a picture frame out of the box, showing him the photo of us. It’s a selfie I nabbed on the opening night of Hair , the spring musical at MPC. I was in the show in addition to helping everyone with their makeup, and I’m dressed like a hippie, bright orange tie-dye and a thin leather band wrapped around my head. Round purple sunglasses sit on my face, and large earrings poke out through my straightened hair. Ian’s dressed in all black, and he’s got his headset around his neck. I thought it was such a cute photo of our faces all squished together that I immediately got it printed and framed it, as old-fashioned as that is. But it’s a first for me in a relationship.

“Aw, I love this.” He takes the frame and stares at it lovingly.

I love the way he looks at us. There’s so much love in his eyes. His whole face softens and he glances at me, the same look in his eyes. When he leans in for a kiss, I linger. Sweaty as we both are, I should care more, but I don’t.

He breaks the kiss and plants a soft peck on my forehead. I turn back to the box, and he sits, digging into the box too.

“I was wondering where you packed this!” he says.

Ian pulls out a plush toy. It’s a bean pod. I bought it for him for our three-month anniversary, when I finally told him the story of how I mentally called him a green bean the entire time we were in the one-act together.

We know it’s silly celebrating every anniversary at our age, but we both knew each month was a milestone. With every passing month, it’s the longest relationship I’ve ever had.

“I packed it with all our other relationship stuff. Apparently, I made us a relationship box.”

“You are so soft, McKinney. A fucking marshmallow.” His grin takes up his whole face. He’s so cute it kind of makes me want to scream, but instead, I point a finger at him and hold it up to his neck like a weapon.

“Don’t you dare tell a soul,” I say.

“Your secret is safe with me.” He winks at me and sets the bean-pod plushie aside. “What else is in this treasure box?”

There’s a sandwich bag with ticket stubs from a couple of movies we saw, a Black Phantom concert we attended with Mac and Jessie in March, and a show at Ian’s hometown theater. I pull out matching T-shirts we made for a school event, and Ian rolls his eyes affectionately. We also find a stuffed llama with a superhero coat we call “Super Llama Man” and the scripts from our one-act. We sort through every item in the box, each object associated with a memory.

By the end of it, we’re surrounded by dozens of markers of our relationship.

Ian picks up the script to The Mercy Seat .

“I can’t believe this was nine months ago.”

“Yeah, it feels like four hundred,” I say.

“I would only be so lucky to have known you for that many years,” he says, reaching out and resting a hand on my thigh. His touch zips through me, firing happy chemicals in my brain and sending different signals to another part of my body.

It reminds me that it wasn’t always like this for us.

“Scale of one to ten, how’s our chemistry?” I ask, putting on a serious face.

“It’s atrocious, dahhling,” he says, a smirk tugging at his lips. Ian takes one of my hands and pulls me up from the floor, leading me to the bedroom. “I think we need to work on it,” he says. He tugs his shirt off, discarding it on the floor.

“That sounds like it’ll be a lot of work,” I say. “We could be up all night working on it.”

I follow suit, discarding my tank top and reaching out to push him onto the bed.

“Could take weeks, in fact,” he says.

“Months,” I say.

“Years.”

“A lifetime,” I whisper.

“I’m up for the challenge,” he says with a kiss that makes the entire world melt away.

Truthfully, I think I am too.