Page 19 of One More Chapter
With that, I start a pot of coffee. No way am I functioning normally without it. I’m the type of person that when I’m up, I’m up. I had planned on savoring the next few days of summer freedom, but apparently, living with Ant, that won’t be an option.
Welcome to my early mornings chapter.
With my extra few hours in the morning, I start by taking inventory of the house.
The house that Mom and Debbie had in college is fully furnished—she uses it as a rental property, so that makes sense. It also helped me, since a lot of my furniture was ruined bythe Niagara Falls escapade. My bedroom is pretty simple: A monochromatic grey scheme with a King-sized bed centered on the main wall; two bedside tables; and a long, six-drawer dresser on the opposite wall at the foot of the bed. Ant’s is much the same. It’s sleek without the hospital feeling, but still plain enough that you know you’re not at home—which isn’t a reminder I need. I know this is only temporary, and I don’t need to make it any more permanent than necessary.
I unpack the rest of my clothes into the dresser, then tuck my empty suitcases into the walk-in closet where I’m also storing the things I was able to salvage from the flood. My bathroom is mostly unpacked—attached between the bedroom and the master closet, it is easily my favorite part of the house, and the reason I chose this side when I initially moved in. With both a platform tubanda walk-in shower with waterfall and detachable heads, along with two benches, I know me and my Kindle are going to spend a lot of time in here.
The kitchen, dining room, and living room all flow together in an open concept design, separated into three spaces by the half-wall of the kitchen that over looks a dining table, and a couch that faces a massive television mounted over a stone fireplace. There are entertainment chests built into the wall on either side. The only accents I added were my favorite purple throw blanket and a stack of books I’m reading on the end table that sits on what I’ve claimed as “my side” of the couch. Ant’s has a dirty old Red Sox blanket and a PlayStation controller, along with three empty cans of Coke and a pair of his balled up socks on the seat.
The rest of the decorations are all his mother’s touch from when she had her husband’s company gut this place down to the studs and rebuild it entirely. I wish I could say that the Elvis squirrel from the bedside table in my room was the weirdest, but it doesn’t even crack the top three. In the living room aloneare three different lamps, including one of a chicken where the lightbulb is coming out like an egg.
I addoverhead lightingto my mental list of dream house renovations for when I either gut my own place and renovate, or buy new completely. I haven’t decided yet. Ididask Debbie about having Ed’s crew help with the gutting when I’d first texted her, but with his retirement coming soon, they’re booked well past the new year.
While my destroyed home on the other side of town is great, it’s small. Two bedrooms and a den that I turned into my office won’t exactly fit the dream I’ve always had in my head for the huge family I want to have one day. It was one of the reasons I almost dated Aaron Russo back when we both first started at River Valley—before we figured out that we were more like siblings than romantically compatible.
I want a ton of kids. I want them to be siblingsandbest friends. I want to have the house where all the neighborhood friends hang out. I want to host backyard pool parties. I want to watch their dad coach them in all the sports and have the Escalade full of snacks for after the game.
I want the family I didn’t have growing up.
Of course, that would require me to put my heart back on the line again, which is easier said than done when every time I do, it ends up costing me. At this point, I wonder if simply writing the happily ever afters I never get will be easier than trying to find one myself.
Instead of dwelling on my perpetual singleness, and whether or not I should download apps again for the billionth time, I set to work on unpacking the last of my necessities and cleaning up the disaster area that Ant and I have made this place since moving in. By the time I’m breaking down the last of my boxes, I hear commotion coming from Ant’s wing of the house—not thedreaded bomb alarm this time, but music. Pop music.Muffledpop music, because Ant is singing along.
Badly. Off key.
I roll my eyes at the same time that my heart pitter-patters and the devil on my shoulder swoons. I flick her off, shake my head, and finish breaking down the boxes with gusto before stomping to the garage. When I return, he is already standing in the kitchen, fully dressed, and guzzling down some cloudy concoction.
“’Mornin’, PJ.”
I scowl.
“You woke me up at the ass crack of dawn, and now you’re going to keep calling me that stupid nickname?Doyou have no bedside manner?”
He licks the remains of his drink from his upper lip and smirks.
And now he’s trying to remind me of the one night I do my best to forget?
I stomp around him—apparently that’s my new method of transportation—and eye the mess he’s already made.
“Could you at least make sure your nasty beverage gets into the dishwasher? And clean the cocaine off the countertop?” I run my finger through the powdery substance, bring it to my nose, and sniff. “What even is this?”
“Pre-workout,” he glowers, then makes a big show of rinsing the cup and spoon out in the sink before loading them into the dishwasher. As he sweeps the powder into his hand and then dumps it back into the container—eww—he says, “I’m heading to the gym. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
I want to keep laying it on thick. Reprimand him for the nickname and the mess and for waking me up so early. Instead, I get a full glimpse of the muscles he’s going tocontinueworkingon for the nextseveral hours, and my tongue goes fuzzy in my mouth.
His body isbuilt. I absolutely believe that he’s about to spend hours at the gym. Couple that with his wavy blonde hair that’s just long enough to tousle and tangle between your fingers, and the blue of his eyes that I can’t seem to match to a shade, and I suddenly need to get out of here and get him out of my head.
As I grab the pot of coffee to top off my mug, I can hear him muttering under his breath, “Don’t put it down, put it away.”
Like I told him yesterday. Which means he’s been listening to me.
So much for getting him out of my head.
Ant leaves, and I do my best to finish tidying up so that I can savor these last few days of writing freedom. Instead, as I’m putting the more eccentric of Mrs. Ellis’s statues away—Goodbye, goose-head-coming-out-of-a-banana-peel—I come across the one photo I didn’t think I’d ever see again.
We can’t be older than two—he’s definitely still wearing a swim diaper in this photo. We’re sitting on the front porch after running through the sprinkler all day. I’m sticking my tongue out because little Anthony Ellis is kissing my cheek.