Page 236 of What We Brave
"Sign here." The delivery guy hands Reid a tablet. He scribbles something illegible. "You folks need anything else?"
"We're good," Blake says. "Thanks."
The door closes behind them and the three of us stand in the bedroom, staring at the bed.
It's... big.
I knew it would be big. I saw the measurements, helped compare mattress specs, watched Blake map out the room with blue tape on the floor. But knowing something and seeing it eat sixty percent of your bedroom floor are different experiences.
The room used to be a rec room — open, carpeted, forgettable. Now it's ours. Renovated bathroom. New fixtures. Painted the walls a warm gray that makes the space feel bigger and cozier at the same time. Reid installed the overhead light, and by installed, I mean he short-circuited everything and called Blake to fix it. I picked the curtains, which Blake hung without commenting on the pattern even though I could tell he had opinions.
Every decision, every compromise, everywhat about this oneandabsolutely notandokay fine but I'm choosing the towels.
"It's the size of a boat," I say.
"It's a bed," Blake says.
"It's a bed with its own zip code." I walk the perimeter — about eighteen inches between the frame and my dresser. There's just enough room to open the drawers.
It's perfect.
"Okay." Reid claps his hands. "Sheets."
"Already washed." Blake moves to the closet, pulls out a neatly folded stack. "Mattress protector. Then fitted sheet first?—"
"I know how to make a bed, Blake."
"Do you? Because you slept in a sleeping bag for?—"
"Oh, here we go."
I leave them to it and hunt for the pillows. We bought too many. Reid has a specific neck-support situation. Blake has opinions aboutthread count that I didn't know a person could have. I kept adding throw pillows because the bed is enormous and would look like a parking lot without them.
By the time I get back they've managed the fitted sheet — mostly — and are arguing about the top sheet.
"Soft side up," Reid says.
"Soft sidedown. Against your skin."
"The tag goes at the bottom."
"The tag is irrelevant?—"
"You're both ridiculous," I announce, dumping the pillows on the half-made bed. "It's a sheet. No one's going to die."
They look at me. At each other. At me.
"Soft side down," they say in unison.
"You guys are so annoying."
But I'm laughing, and so are they, and twenty minutes later the bed is properly made. White sheets, the duvet that had to be special ordered, approximately nine thousand pillows.
We stand back.
"Well," Reid says.
"Yeah," Blake agrees.
