Page 28 of Calculated Risk
"You want to live together?"
"I want to wake up next to you. I want to come home to your chaos. I want to build a life that's ours, not what anyone else expects." I close her hands around the key. "So yes. I want to live together. If you want that too."
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a rhythm that’s become familiar over these weeks, these months. It’s the feeling of walls coming down, of control slipping away, of allowing myself to want something I can’t calculate or predict.
"I do. God, I really do." She laughs, bright and joyful. "But you have to promise not to organize my art supplies."
"I'll try. But I'm making no guarantees about the kitchen."
"Deal."
We kiss as the sun sets over Thornhill, starting our next chapter together.
Chapter 12
Lilah
Movingin with Marcus is exactly as chaotic and perfect as expected.
He tries to organize everything. I strategically chaos everything he organizes. We compromise by giving him the kitchen and office while I claim the studio and bedroom decorating rights.
"Why are there throw pillows on every surface?" he asks two weeks into cohabitation.
"Because they're cozy and aesthetically pleasing."
"There are seventeen throw pillows in the living room alone."
"And?"
"We only have one couch."
"Your point?"
He kisses me instead of arguing. I count it as a win.
Summer passes in a blur of gallery shows and consulting projects. Marcus travels for work, Chicago, New York, Boston and I miss him desperately every time. But he always comes home. Always calls. Always shows up.
In August, we host a dinner party. Isla and Sebastian, Lennox and Carter, Ivy and Ethan. Our found family crammed into our small apartment, laughing and drinking and celebrating.
"To Marcus," Sebastian toasts, "for finally pulling his head out of his ass and admitting he was in love."
"To Lilah," Isla adds, "for putting up with all of us."
"To found family," Lennox says. "Because blood doesn't mean shit if they can't support who you really are."
We drink to that.
Later, after everyone leaves, Marcus and I clean up together. He washes, I dry. Domestic and simple and everything I never knew I wanted.
"Happy?" he asks.
"Deliriously. You?"
"More than I thought possible." He pulls me close, soapy hands and all. "Thank you."
My heart does something complicated in my chest—a rhythm that’s become familiar over these weeks, these months. It’s the feeling of walls coming down, of control slipping away, of allowing myself to want something I can’t calculate or predict.
"For what?"
