Sitting in a warm October sun at a picnic table at an outdoor bar in Portland, the statement just sort of popped out.
“You could always just move in.” I’m pretty sure I blushed when I said it. He had been talking about his house and the possibility of selling it and moving on, or renting it. It was idle lunch-time conversation, but then it took a right turn.
Our first concern was for the boy-man living in my house. Would he object to such an invasion? We moved on to the ways Jim might feel more at home in my home rather than feeling like a permanent guest.
Timing was another: he has barely finished his man-cave reno and wants to enjoy staying in it (presently this amounts to one night a week) for a little longer. This is not going to be an imminent change, but a gradual one, like much of our relationship has already been. There is a float plane in his garage that needs attention after all.
We basked in the sun, full of bar burgers that would later haunt us, Portland cool wearing our sunglasses and a dog at our feet in equal bask mode, silent, content, each pleased with the conversation and what it meant.
“Maybe when the plane project is finished…” he said. “In the spring.”
“No rush,” I said. “Whenever it feels right.”
A week later, as the boy-man and I were sequestered in a car headed north for Canadian Thanksgiving, I started the conversation:
Me: “Jim and I are thinking about moving in together…What do you think?”
Him: “I don’t really care.”
Me: “It wouldn’t be weird for you?”
Him: “No. Why would it? It wouldn’t really change anything, would it?”
Me: “No. I guess you’re right, it wouldn’t really change much.”
So that’s how it happens. It’s not a U-haul sidling up to the house to unload collections of beer mugs and tools, but a pair of shoes left at the front door, a few extra pairs of jeans in the laundry, a new chauffeur for the kid and doggie playdates in a garage with a float plane in it.