by Jean Oram
“Fine, I’ll finish cleaning my room.” Amy had rolled her eyes and glanced at her sister, uncertain about the comparison. Jillian was older by seven years. She’d been a smart, high-achieving, mature and organized, all-around-amazing big sister, and everything nine-year-old Amy felt she would never be. Jillian had known what she wanted and gone after it, selling lemonade in front of the house at age four, homemade cookies at seven, her own newspaper at nine.
Amy stroked the old magazine, then carefully tucked it inside the box so it wouldn’t get damaged in the move.
Jillian had had so much potential. She wouldn’t have agreed to a marriage pledge and a wedding she couldn’t afford. She wouldn’t have had to, because everything would have fallen into place, since she would have already done whatever was needed to keep her life from disintegrating into one big mess.
That day of the magazine article had been one of the last truly happy ones. Their family had driven to the city that night, dining at a fancy restaurant where the waiter had a silver crumb sweeper to clear the tablecloth when they were done eating their bread. Her mom hadn’t even tsked at the amount of crumbs in front of Amy, as she’d been too busy pointing out the article to everyone who passed their table.
The polite but genuine admiration of strangers for Jillian’s skills had been heady, leading Amy to pipe up that she was Jillian’s sister. And that, yes, she was proud of her and wanted to be just like her when she was older.
But over the next few years the pressure to be more like Jillian and find her passion, as well as to be more organized, had increased, the comparisons never-ending. The expectations had become binding, confining Amy like a mighty python, despite the way her sister stood up for her and changed the subject whenever possible, trying to shield her.
When Jillian died four years later, Amy had thought her parents’ grief might somehow distract them, finally allowing her to breathe and be her normal messy self. Instead, the feeling that she now had two lives to live had settled over her. Her mom and dad were shells of themselves and she found herself striving to be more like Jillian in an attempt to make things feel right and normal again. She’d tried everything to make her parents light up even a fraction of the way they had when Jillian was alive. But Amy had had to struggle to keep it up. She’d do things like keep her room clean for an entire month and then snap one day, painting the whole space lime-green, without permission.
Nursing had been a career they could all settle on, but Amy’s need to bolt had reared up more than once, sending her flying into a new adventure, a new job.
One day. One day she’d get it all right. And hopefully soon, with a family.
Amy chucked a pair of flip-flops into a box of kitchen gadgets and sealed it shut, feeling sweat forming along her brow. She needed to get away from Blueberry Springs and just breathe again. Not for long. Just a weekend, or a few weeks or something. Maybe go scuba diving once more.
There was a knock at her door and she leaped to answer it, welcoming the distraction.
The door opened and Moe’s head peeked in.
“I didn’t recognize you with your haircut.” Her teasing tone lacked conviction. His shorter hair gave his jaw a more defined look, but seemed to strip him of his devil-may-care image. She’d liked how it had contradicted the fact that, despite his easygoing manner, he was as solid as a few hundred feet of bedrock. Now he looked like the man he was.
And she’d noted that more than a few female customers in the pub had noticed, too.
Moe took in the stacks of boxes with a sweep of his brown eyes. “Ready?” he asked.
Was she?
What if Moe expected her to be as neat and tidy as he was? What if he didn’t like the way she enjoyed really long hot showers? They should have talked about this before the wedding. She should have thought it all through, point by point. She couldn’t lose him. He was the only one who didn’t hold up a picture of a perfect life, then look at her and shake his head with disappointment.
“Come on, Amy,” he prompted. “You need to decide.”
“On what?”
“An annulment.”
The firmness in his voice made her head snap up. Annulment? The thought left her cold inside.
“Are we moving in together and setting this plan in motion or not?” he asked in a no-nonsense tone he usually reserved for unruly patrons in the pub. “I’m ready to do this, but you’re dragging your feet.”
The idea of Moe giving up spurred her into action. She picked up the closest box and pushed it into his arms. “I’m not dragging my feet. I’m just disorganized.”
She met his eyes, struck by how warm they were despite the firmness of his words. His gaze was like chocolate fudge. His kisses made her forget why she was fighting the world.
“Hi,” she said softly, remembering their old times together, how easy and free they’d been. How good he felt at her side, those strong arms wrapped around her, her head against his chest.
“Quit undressing me with those eyes, woman. Separate bedrooms, remember?”
She let out a choked laugh.
“Seriously,” he said, his voice loaded with fake disgust. “This is the last time I ever cut my hair. I’m not a piece of meat. I have feelings, you know. Dreams. Aspirations.”
Amy giggled. Leave it to Moe to take her worries and wash them away in a matter of moments.
“I love you.”
He rolled his eyes. “And now you’re throwing around the L word. I already married you, lady.” The edges of his lips tugged upward, but he didn’t allow the smile to truly break free. “Come on, grab a box.”
“We’re going to need to make a lot of trips,” she said, complying with his order. “Both our cars are pretty small.”
“Devon’s downstairs with Frankie’s truck.”
Of course he had organized a truck for her. That was her Moe. “That’s why you’re going to be the father of my kids. You’ll remember the diaper bag.”
She followed him down the narrow staircase that led to the street. Her earlier apprehension had been replaced by excitement. They were going to do this. She was going to be a mom, and everything was going to be wonderful. If they hadn’t both been holding boxes, she would have given Moe a quick hug of appreciation.
“Where’s Frankie?” she asked, as they dropped their boxes onto the open tailgate.
“He and Mandy are at the doctor’s.”
“Is everything okay?”
Moe shrugged and slid the boxes farther into the truck.
“Where’s Devon?”
They both scanned the street, finding him a few doors down, chatting with Fran, the owner of a local boutique. With him as mayor, Amy was sure Devon’s work was never done.
“Hey, Devon! You helping or what?” Moe called.
He waved, angling himself their way, but continuing to chat.
Moe dusted off his wrinkled T-shirt in the bright July sun and set a hand on his hip. “Looks like we’re loading up ourselves,” he muttered.
“Are you unpacked already?” Amy asked, as they climbed the stairs back to her apartment. She’d been so busy with the wedding and then putting her life in order, as well as packing, that she hadn’t even helped him move in.
What if he’d already hung that awful painting of a cat he’d done in high school? The proportions were wrong, giving the feline a slightly demented look. It would break his heart if she asked him to take it down, but she couldn’t live with it staring at her all the time.
“Not everything. I was waiting for you.”
He’d declared their current apartments too small to raise kids in. But Amy knew it was more than that. He’d lived alone in a walk-out basement suite in a duplex overlooking the river for as long as she could remember, probably since the summer after he’d graduated from high school and his father and sister had left for South Carolina, leaving him behind. Her best guess was that with a new home, he was offering her a fresh start in a place deemed neutral ground. Neither of them would
be stepping on each other’s toes or messing with someone else’s established territory.
New habits and all that. Couple’s habits.
As she watched his shoulders flex when he lifted a box full of books, groaning and muttering about how it would have been nice for her to distribute the books’ weight in a few boxes, she wondered what habits they would fall into as spouses. Would he offer her a chaste good-night kiss that would eventually become more? He sometimes gave her a passing peck on the cheek, one that felt very European, at the end of a long night in the pub.
She hoped that he would do that each night at home so she could accidentally move her head at the last moment, lining up their lips from time to time.
She smiled at the planned ploy and picked up a box in turn, following him down the stairs, eager to see where their new life would lead them. Because she knew that as long as she had Moe, she had everything.
Moe stacked the last box from the truck along the wall in the living room. None of Amy’s boxes were labeled and he wondered if her unpacking system would simply be to open every one and dump the contents on the floor. He had a feeling it might be.
“That’s everything,” Devon said, handing Moe a rather sad-looking houseplant that had ridden in the cab of the truck.
“Thanks for your help. Can I buy you a beer?” He headed toward the fridge, ready to retrieve a cold one should his friend accept.
“Sorry, I promised Olivia I’d come straight home so I could watch Abigail while she puts some finishing touches on a dress.” Devon and his wife had a busy, inquisitive toddler who kept the two of them running as they tried to balance their semi-new careers along with parenthood. “She’s trying to get ahead before her parents come for a visit. Rain check?”
“Sounds like you’ll need a double after the in-laws.”
“Don’t you know it,” Devon said with a wry smile.
“How’s Olivia liking making her own designs?”
“She’s loving it. She makes my ears bleed talking about bodices, tulle and other stuff—but don’t tell her I said that,” he added quickly.
Despite Devon’s complaints, his expression gave away that he loved every minute of it.
“Your secret’s safe with me.”
“See you later, Amy!” Devon called into the house.
She peeked her head out of the first bedroom along the hall. Her eyes were lit with excitement and her white tank top brought out the early summer tan on her shoulders. “Thanks, Mr. Mayor!”
He gave a salute from his spot at the door. “Just doing my duty and making sure Blueberry Springs citizens get what they need.”
Amy laughed and disappeared back into her room. Moe closed the door behind Devon and let out a slow exhalation. This was it. Spouse time.
Time to make some babies.
Well, make a fertility appointment.
Why did the idea of in vitro feel so disappointing?
Amy came out of her room, a box in her arms. Moe followed her swaying hips down the narrow hall into the sunny kitchen, where she dumped the box onto the counter, her tank top catching on an open flap and revealing a flash of bra that made his mind go straight to the process of making those babies she wanted.
Just act normal, dude. That kiss at the wedding went too far, and things are getting weird. You can’t let a kiss like that happen again.
And those thoughts zinging around in your brain? All she has to do is take one look to know they’re as dirty as the oil in an old diesel engine. Don’t make it awkward, man. Be cool.
“Kitchen stuff,” she explained, her chin tipped down as she waited for him to start the job of unpacking.
“Right,” he replied, thrusting his hand into the box, to retrieve a soup ladle. Standing beside her, inhaling the familiar scent of her shampoo, he had to block out the ping of lust that kept slamming up against his brain like a moth to a porch light. Maybe she had a box that would keep him busy in the garage for a few hours.
“What do you want to do with duplicates?” he asked, holding up the ladle.
She took it and plunged it handle-first into the jar on the counter that held his own serving utensils. “You can always do with having two,” she explained.
She stopped and surveyed the room, her lips turning down. “You’ve unpacked all of your stuff, haven’t you?”
“Do you need me to move anything?”
She mulled that over while he shoved her mixing bowls into a low cupboard.
“No, not yet,” she said finally, her lack of decisiveness a sure sign that something was on her mind.
“You okay?”
“Yeah, just hungry.”
Easy to solve. The pizza had arrived just before Devon left. It was sitting behind the big box she’d started to empty. She must be distracted if she hadn’t noticed the white box or sniffed out its wonderful scent yet.
“Tell me what you need, and I’ll make it happen,” he said in a seductive tone, tugging the pizza box closer. Time to show her they could be like their old flirty selves without things getting weird or awkward.
Amy’s chest expanded as she slowly inhaled, uncurling her hands, which had bunched into fists, and placing them flat on the counter. “Moe…”
He held up the pizza box and Amy’s shoulders dropped, her lips twisting into an unimpressed grimace.
“Chill,” he coaxed. “I know all you need is some DNA for your babies and someone to help change diapers.” The look of fear and doubt returned to her gaze, and he tugged her into a loose hug. “We’re going to create that family you want. Neither of us has any crazy romantic idealizations, which is why we’re doing this. This is going to work out better than everyone else’s marriage, I promise.”
Amy hugged him tight, her body nestling into the nooks and crannies of his own, making him think of a jigsaw puzzle.
“You always know what to say, don’t you?” she murmured against his chest.
“I try. Now,” he said, releasing her, “let’s feed you.”
She nodded and took the slice of plain pepperoni pizza he passed her way. Just pepperoni and cheese—her favorite. Unlike him. He might not be adventurous in life, but when it came to pizza he wanted all the fixings.
“I don’t know why I’m so…” She waved the slice of pizza in the air as though trying to conjure up the right word.
“Nervous? Skittish? Chicken? Maybe it’s a secret fear of change.”
“Ha-ha,” she said dryly.
“Don’t give me that. I deserve a real laugh.”
“Sometimes a woman fakes things.”
“You weren’t faking your reaction to that knee-weakening kiss I gave you at our wedding.” He might as well head straight to the very thing she was trying to avoid talking about, because he’d bet that fantasy-inducing kiss was at least half the reason she was acting a bit off today.
“Yeah. What was that?” She put down her pizza, turning to look at him with such intensity he felt bad for their future children, envisioning them trying to squirm their way out of something.
“It got to you,” he stated.
“It got to you, too.” She picked up her slice of pizza again, aiming it at him like a weapon, her cheeks pink. “There was something…odd about it.”
Odd wasn’t the adjective he’d choose to describe the heat that had been present, ready to weld them together for all eternity.
“What was it?” she insisted.
“Quit badgering me.”
“As your wife it’s my right to nag and demand answers. We can’t kiss like that or things are going to get complicated.”
She reached up and pulled the elastic off her ponytail, setting her hair free to dance across her bare shoulders.
A shudder of attraction slammed into him and he let out a jerky breath. “I’ll take this to the garage.” He dumped the last items in the box on the counter and turned to flee.
“Moe.” She grabbed his hand, her fingers sure and warm, like they’d been when she’d caressed the nape of hi
s neck during that kiss. Another shudder ripped through him.
She wasn’t going to let him go until he gave her a proper answer, was she?
And what was the proper answer? That he’d wanted to consummate their marriage at their earliest convenience after that soul-searing kiss?
“It was probably just the moment getting to us,” he replied.
She was searching his eyes for something, then, seeming to find it, she released him, saying, “Do you think our kids will find it strange that we have separate bedrooms?”
Don’t think about bedrooms.
He gripped the empty box, heading to the attached garage, saying over his shoulder, “Not when I explain to them that you snore like a bulldozer.”
“You said it was more like a transport truck.”
“That, too.”
He dropped the empty carton on the garage floor. His tools were still boxed, lined up against the wall. He needed shelves. A worktable where he could teach their kids how to hammer a nail in straight and use a power drill.
He picked up Amy’s box and carefully peeled off the tape holding the bottom together, before collapsing the cardboard and stacking it with other boxes from his move, ready to go to the recycling depot.
“You haven’t put up your posters yet,” Amy said, when he returned to the house. She was in the living room, gesturing to the bare walls.
“I threw them out. They seemed a bit too…college.”
She smiled, obviously agreeing. “What about your painting?”
“That one I did in high school?” he asked in surprise.
She nodded.
He didn’t think she’d liked it. The thing was awful. “Dumpster.”
“Dumpster! But you made it.”
“Doesn’t mean I have to keep it forever.”
“You hung it on your wall forever.”
“Because I didn’t have anything to replace it with. And now I do.”
“With what?”
“I thought we’d frame some of those photos you took of the mountains.”
“Back when I wanted to be a photographer?” She laughed and shook her head, digging into a box of books. She stacked them on his coffee table.
