Boyfriend's Boundaries Only Held Where I Could See Them

Evan turned his phone toward the hallway before he turned it toward himself. "See?" he said. "Clear sightlines. No mysterious houseguests. No beautiful strangers hiding behind the shower curtain." I watched the camera pass over a narrow living room, a kitchen with one mug beside the sink, and the dark doorway to his bedroom. The routine was familiar enough that I could have narrated it for him. Every night, after we talked about his restoration project and my move to Grayhaven, he gave me a tour of whatever room he was in. I had thought it was sweet when he started. A silly answer to a serious question. We'd spent the first seven months of our relationship in different cities, and he'd said he wanted me to feel included in his life, not kept at its edge. Now I smiled from my apartment in Bellwether and pretended not to notice that the tour had become a test neither of us had agreed to take. "Very convincing," I said. He held the phone level with his face. "I aim to please." His hair was damp, and a pale stripe of sawdust marked the collar of his work shirt. Behind him, the renovated windows of the old Marlowe Hotel reflected the last orange light of evening. I had seen that hotel in a hundred pictures. It was a sprawling brick building above Grayhaven's harbor, closed for decades and now being turned into a boutique inn. Evan had landed the project eight months ago. I'd stayed behind to finish my contract at Bellwether Public Radio, where I produced short audio documentaries. Three weeks from today, I was meant to start a new job at Grayhaven's station and move into the apartment we had rented together. The boxes stacked around my living room made the plan look more real than it felt. "Did the movers confirm?" he asked. "Tuesday morning. They want the final payment by Friday." "Good. I'll be there when the truck arrives." "You said you'd be on site." "I can move a meeting." He smiled. "I can do anything when it's for you." It was an old line, and he said it like a promise. I leaned closer to my laptop. "You'll have to put that in writing." "Already did. The lease has both our names." That was true. So was the fact that I had given notice at work and turned down an extension on my current contract. I had wanted to make the move for my own reasons too: a better job, a new city, a life that wasn't always split between a screen and a highway. Still, I had made the decision with Evan's hand warm around mine and his voice saying, We'll finally wake up in the same place. "Do you want to come up this weekend?" he asked. "You can see the apartment before the boxes get there." "I thought you wanted to wait until I moved." "I do. But if you're nervous, you can come down." "I'm not nervous." I said it quickly enough that he lifted an eyebrow. "I'm excited," I corrected. "I'm allowed to be excited and nervous." "You are." His face softened. "You've had a lot to change in a short time." I looked at the moving boxes. "You're the one who talked me into it." "I didn't talk you into anything. I asked you to build a life with me." There was a difference, technically. I had understood that he wanted me to come. I had chosen to come. He tilted the phone, showing me the kitchen again. "All clear. Your turn." I laughed. "My turn?" "Show me your apartment. Make sure no handsome radio producers are hiding behind your couch." "Most of them are too tired to hide." I picked up my phone and gave him the same grand tour. My kitchen. My little living room. The bedroom where I had slept alone for most of the past year. When I pointed the camera toward the closet, he made a face. "Nothing back there but my winter coat." "Shame," he said. "I was hoping for a dramatic reveal." "Maybe tomorrow." "Tomorrow it is." We talked for another twenty minutes. He told me the hotel's new stair rail had arrived with the wrong finish. I told him my last feature at the station was about the bells on the ferry docks. He promised to send me pictures of the apartment's second bedroom, where I could set up a recording desk. Then he checked the time and said he had an early morning. "Love you," he said. "Love you too." His image froze for a second, then the call ended. I closed my laptop and listened to the radiator click in my apartment. For a while, the quiet felt like a place I was leaving behind. My phone lit up on the table. Evan: Forgot to ask. Could you bring the blue folder when you come down? Lease stuff. I smiled. We had a blue folder full of receipts, insurance papers, and the apartment application. I typed that I would. Then I went back to packing. ***** The next morning, I called my station manager and confirmed my final day. I had already given notice, but the date had been flexible until then. I made it official. I said goodbye to the people who had taught me how to cut a story until only the true parts remained. That afternoon, I started to wonder if I had been doing the same with my relationship: cutting out the little doubts until the story sounded clean. I pushed the thought aside. Doubt was easy to mistake for wisdom when the future required a leap.