Chapter 23: Ours

On Thursday night Beck carried the last box through the front door of the house on Pine Street.

"Where does this one go?" he asked.

"Kitchen."

"It's marked 'Beck, books.'"

"Then the shelf in the living room."

"It's your grandmother's living room."

"It's ours now," Lena said, and then she heard it.

She stood in the hall with a dish towel in her hand.

He set the box down very carefully.

"Say that again."

"I said it's ours."

"Because you can take it back."

"I'm not going to take it back."

He crossed the hall in two steps.

He kissed her against the doorframe with his hands on either side of her face, and the dish towel fell on the floor.

The house was quiet.

The ceramic frog sat on the porch.

Every window was open, and the autumn air smelled of cut grass and woodsmoke.

She tugged his shirt out of his jeans.

"Not here," Beck said against her mouth. "The neighbors."

"They already watched me throw a robe on the lawn."

"I'd like them to keep their good opinion."

"Too late."

She pulled him up the stairs by his belt.

At the top, he turned her to face the wall and put one hand flat beside her head.

"This is the room," he said.

"What room?"

"Your old bedroom."

"How do you know?"

"Susanna told me. She said you used to lie on the floor and stare at the ceiling and plan your save percentage."

"I've told her a hundred times to stop talking."

"She said you glued a hockey card above the bed."

Lena looked up.

On the ceiling, in the corner, there was a faded rectangle of tape.

"It fell off in tenth grade."

"I'll buy you another."

"Of who?"

"Me."

"Shut up," she said, laughing, and kissed him.

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