“Exactly why I took you out to meet my family tonight,” he shot back playfully, and I raised my eyebrows.
“All right, smooth talker,” I teased back. “Come help me with the stuff I have for the bathroom.”
The tension between us broke, lifting for the first time since we’d arrived back home. He took some time to fully unwind, but soon, the two of us were actually having a good time getting all his art hung up around the place, bantering about the best wall for the biggest piece, about whether he should have paid ten thousand dollars for what amounted to a sketch of an orange.
He was good-humored about it and happy to let me take the lead, his confidence slowly returning to him. I wondered if it had something to do with his father. I knew in high-achieving families like his, relationships could take on a tense edge quickly. But I was happy to just talk to him, to tease and laugh and dance around that apartment, turning it from a cold, sterile place to a home filled with color.
When we were done, I slumped down on the couch and punched both fists into the air.
“Yes,” I celebrated, and he sat down next to me and proffered me a hand for a high-five. I slapped my palm against his and felt myself flush a little. All right, so I was still doing the schoolgirl-crush thing. That was good to know.
“It looks so much better in here,” he remarked as he glanced around. “I’ve been meaning to do that for so long.”
“Why didn’t you?” I wondered aloud. “All those paintings just sitting there.”
He fell silent for a moment, thinking. I liked that he took time to think before he answered my questions instead of just blurting out anything that came into his head. And when he spoke again, I felt my heart twist with sadness for him.
“I didn’t know if I’d be staying here,” he replied at last. “I mean, I knew I wanted to have somewhere that was my own, somewhere I could build a life, but with my family putting all that pressure on me to get married, I didn’t want to … I didn’t want to do too much to a place that was going to have someone else in it soon.”
“So why didn’t you get married? Before me, I mean?” I prompted him. He was quiet for a moment before he spoke once more.
“Because of my dad,” he responded.
“What do you mean?”
“He’s been in and out of all these marriages since my mom died.” He shook his head. “I genuinely lose count. And he wants me to believe in this whole long-lasting love thing, but I just can’t, not looking at him. I think lust can carry you through those first few months, maybe even few years, but beyond that …”
He trailed off and stared into space, as though speaking it out loud for the first time had suddenly clarified things in his head that he’d never been able to articulate before. He blinked and then turned back to me.
“You want a beer?”
“Love one,” I replied, and he got to his feet and headed to the kitchen. I turned to watch him go and wondered just how committed he was to the idea that love didn’t last.