After the middle-name debacle, Drew drowned his sorrows in one too many drinks. We didn’t let him cross the line into full inebriation, but tipsy Drew is a fun time.
On our way home, the four of us stop outside Drew and Reagan’s building first.
“Sisssster,” my brother slurs as he pulls me in for a bear hug. “I’m gonna miss you.”
“I’m gonna miss you too, brother.”
We step back and I keep my hands at his waist to steady his swaying feet. “I’m sssorry I wasajerk before.”
“I’m sorry I middle named you.”
He grins. “No, you’re not.”
“You’re right, I’m not.”
“But, no,” he pinches his brows like he’s fighting a headache, “Msorry I was a jerk bout Connor. I actually think he’s the besss…t. I love tha guy.”
I flick my eyes to Connor over Drew’s shoulder. The boyish grin on his face tells me he’s heard every word.
“I love you, big brother.”
“I love you more.”
Three days later,on a sweltering New Jersey Sunday morning, Connor and I say goodbye to my dad who begins the long drive back to Illinois with the U-haul.
The storage trailer was about the smallest one you can reserve. I only needed enough space for a few boxes, clothes and the handful of furniture items from Connor’s place that will take up permanent residence here. Things like his couch, coffee table, entertainment cabinet, living room television and dining room table, which we’ve developed a deep sentimental attachment to—for eating…food, obviously.
I’ll spend these next few months while he’s back in Chicago, turning this place into a home.Our home.
Tomorrow is my first day at work and Connor catches an early flight back to Chicago for his first day as the marketing and media team leader on the Governor of Illinois’ re-election campaign.
We spend the day tying up loose ends. I put my clothes away while Connor unloads all the groceries we ordered. I unpack the bathroom while he puts away the split amount of his dishes and cookware he brought from his place—he left some behind in Chicago to survive on until he’s here permanently.
“I feel bad you’ll be living in a nearly empty apartment,” I say as I flap out the fitted sheet over our new mattress that was delivered yesterday along with a new bed from a local furniture store.
Last night, we were so exhausted from the drive followed by dozens of trips up and down the elevator unloading the trailer, we threw an old blanket on top of the bare mattress and called it a night while my dad crashed on the couch.
Connor catches the fabric and secures the corners on the other side. “I don’t. I’m gonna be at the office so much, I’ll barely notice.” He reaches for the flat sheet still in its packaging and tosses it at me.
Our only concrete plans to see each other in the coming months is when he makes the trip to Arizona over Labor Day weekend—over a month away. Cheyenne and Mom have been in constant communication these past few weeks, making arrangements for our families to come together over the holiday. I’ll fly out of New York and meet my parents in Flagstaff. Connor will fly out a day later for a quick twenty-four hour visit before he has to get back to Chicago.
Beyond that, we’ll squeeze in visits when, and if, we can. But flight costs add up and I’m focused on paying off my credit card before the end of the year while he’s got rent for his Chicago apartment and half of this one to worry about for the next four months. Money will be tight for both of us.
I am today years old when I learned that you can miss someone before they’ve even left.
He smooths out the flat sheet on his side of the bed. “I got all of my streaming accounts connected on the television, by the way.”
“Thanks,” I say, voice absent. The pillowcase package in my hands is locked down tighter than Fort Knox—I yank and tug to no avail.
Quiet footsteps come around the foot of the bed, but I don’t look up. Unbidden tears cloud my vision and I try so hard to suppress the ache in my chest, to mask it with my futile efforts to open this stupid pillowcase. Overwhelmed and emotional, I toss everything to the ground in frustration. “Dammit!”
Connor’s gentle arms ease me into his chest and I clutch his shirt in my fists. “I’m gonna miss you, too,” he whispers.
Moments later, when he takes my face in his hands and kisses me, I taste the saltiness of shed tears—mostly mine, but some feel like his. We both know tomorrow isn’t a goodbye, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less.
The need to touch, to feel, to taste, takes over and as we tumble into bed atop the fresh linens, he begs me not to cry.
I sniffle. “You started it,” I say as I peel his shirt off.
