Chapter Seventeen

Barrett

Our homes were built by the same developer about forty years ago in the era of tracts. They were basically mirror image of one another, so that when you stood in my front doorway, you faced his and my bedroom was on the opposite side of the house. Everything opposite. And when the homes were new, they would have looked virtually alike other than color and those factors. Each had an identical tree planted in the middle of its front lawn, and there were no garages, only carports. The front steps led up to identical doors and a small patio, and everything was painted in the same color palette. Four colors alternating with white trim and shingle roofs.

But, of course, over time, the residents had made changes, some of the trees died, and gradually the homes developed their own personalities. Of course there were a few that looked essentially the same, their shabbiness standing out amid the others that had been painted, polished, and added on to, but neither Kent’s nor mine were among the shabby. The previous owners of my house had added not only a garage but a sunroom to the property. It had been painted several times and the kitchen appliances and cabinets upgraded. The old carpeting was replaced with hardwood and laminate, making the home one of the more desirable on the street. The original tree stood tall and proud in a lawn replaced by a more pollinator friendly sort of green low-growing ground cover, giving great street appeal as well. My Realtor guaranteed the house would appreciate considerably in the next ten years—not that I was sure how they’d had the ability to make such a promise. But it seemed logical given the home sales I’d seen online in the area. What the professionals called comparables.

But when we were deciding where to live together, we had no trouble selecting Kent’s home. It also had some upgrades, for example a garage, even nicer flooring, and a couple of non-weight-bearing walls removed to create an open living-dining room areas. New windows helped with heating and cooling costs, the exterior had a river rock facade halfway up the front, and the back-yard veggie garden had three years of compost enriching the soil and four-year-old asparagus plants. But none of those things were why we picked his home to be ours. It was a logistical decision based on the fact that I still was only about halfway unpacked, making it easier to simply cart boxes from my garage, where I’d stowed them, to his.

Eventually, I would go through them and get rid of anything I didn’t want or need, but for the moment they would be out of the way of everything day to day. We’d decided to rent my house out as an investment.

“That should do it.” Kent held a hand out to me, and I took it, helping him to his feet. “Pearly, come try out your new doggy door.”

My faithful dog sniffed around the edges of the new door in the door to the back yard but then sat down, wagging their tail. Didn’t look like they’d be doing any solo visits outside in the near future, but it was there when he needed or wanted it.

And, more importantly, I officially lived here with Kent, and we would be coming home every night to sleep in our shared bed together. And we had already begun to create a nursery for him out of the second guest bedroom.

“Is that everything from the other house?” he asked. “Your tenant will be moving in at the end of the week.”

“Yep, and I didn’t live there long enough to even require new paint.” Or anything more than a light cleaning. “So, I’m free to do whatever you’d like to this evening. Did you want to go to the club maybe or out to dinner?”

“Would you think it was weird if I wanted to stay home, cook dinner together, and watch a movie on TV?” He wound his arms around my waist, eyelashes fluttering in the cutest way. “Maybe snuggle a little?”

“Weird? No. I’d call it perfect. What would you like to eat?”

He chewed on his lower lip. “I think we need to go to the store because I’m out of just about everything.”

“Correction, we are out of just about everything. And since dinnertime is just about upon us, shall we go now?” It felt fantastic solving a problem together. Even one as simple as going to the grocery store, and as we moved up and down the aisles, he fell halfway into little mode, sneaking packages of cookies and other baked goods and begging me for a storybook from the toy section. As a result, we returned home to prepare a little-friendly meal of macaroni and cheese, chicken fingers with barbecue sauce for dipping and raw veggies with ranch. Dips mattered to this little.

He sat at the counter, swinging his legs and keeping me company while I cooked. It was my first time preparing a meal in the kitchen, but it felt so natural. We weren’t having a little evening, strictly, but Kent was very at ease, nibbling on carrot and celery sticks while the rest of everything cooked.

“Daddy, can I ask you something?” He reached for a cherry tomato and popped it into his mouth.

“Of course, my sweet boy. You can always ask me anything you like.”

“How did you know I was the one?”

I drained the water from the pasta and tore the packet open. My little might have gourmet hot chocolate standards, but when it came to his mac and cheese, he was old-school. I dumped the bright-orange powder into the pot, added half a stick of butter and a good splash of milk and went to stirring. “That’s a good question. I think just seeing you every day, noticing how kind you were to Pearly and how cheerful you were in the morning was a great start.” I set the spoon on the rest and the lid on the pot and came around to take him in my arms. “And of course the fact that you were adorable.”

He tipped his face up to mine, lips parted in an invitation I had never managed to resist yet. Our kiss was only interrupted by the buzzer of the oven timer. “Your chicken strips are ready.”

“Mmm.” He kissed me again, but this was one of those timers that did not stop until someone went and made it happen, so I finally had to step back and turn it off.

“Let’s eat.” I pulled the baking sheet out of the oven, pleased the strips didn’t look too overcooked. “Aren’t you hungry?”

“Yes, but maybe not for chicken.” He beamed at me, but I shook my head.

“You are going to need your energy if we’re going to have that private celebration of my first night living here with you. So”—I put three strips and a scoop of macaroni on a plate and set it in front of him—eat up.”

“Yes, Daddy. I want to have all the energy so I can show you how happy I am you’re here forever.”

And he showed me in a very big way.