Page 17

BJ

I’d always thought that all moving sucked—that there was no version of it that wasn’t stressful, sweaty, shittastic. That there was no time when moving would actually be filled with far more excitement and joy than torment.

I’d been wrong. So very wrong.

What I hadn’t taken into consideration was the most important thing.

I’d been focused on the place, the logistics, the endless boxes and damaged furniture and whether the couch would fit through the front door or up the stairs.

I’d been thinking about the hassle, the way a new place never felt like home, the sense of loss.

And at the end of the day, none of that mattered, not when you were moving home.

And I was moving home for the very first time. Daddy was that home and the location, nothing more than a detail.

In that light, none of the rest mattered. It didn’t matter if I had to carry each item, one at a time, across the city by foot, barefoot in the snow. I would have done it without complaining. Happily, even.

This was going to be the most amazing move ever.

Thankfully, I didn’t have to make that barefoot snow trek. Because Daddy had a moving company.

And unlike hosting a “moving party” with coworkers and casual friends who only came for the promise of pizza and beer, this crew was made up of paid professionals.

I didn’t feel guilty asking them to carry heavy boxes or make a bazillion trips to their truck.

They were efficient and careful and didn’t ask a single annoying question about what was in each box or if we were almost done.

It was why I’d spent the money to use the company last time.

After going through everything, we opted to donate most of my furniture.

It had served me well, but I wasn’t attached to most of it and the few pieces I was came with me.

Daddy’s place had a larger bed, a kitchen table big enough for actual dinners with guests, and living room furniture we’d picked out together only a few weeks earlier.

I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’d wanted my opinion, and I’d given it. And that was that. I hadn’t anticipated it being any sort of game changer, but it was.

When the living room set arrived, I finally felt it fully. Like it clicked into place. This was my house too. That simple fact made my chest ache in the best way. Now, all the rest coming was simply details.

We did combine kitchen goods. I had my favorite little dishes, plus a few of my grandmother’s cast-iron pots and pans that would work nicely. I also had a far superior toaster, one that handled bagels like a boss.

But overall, it was just my things that were coming with. Clothes, books, little items, etc.

And the house already felt like it was mine—like it had been waiting for me to come home. Was that sappy? Probably, but so be it.

I ordered pizza for the movers after they brought in the last of everything.

They’d worked hard, and feeding people was just what you did at moving parties, even if this technically wasn’t that.

They were coworkers of my daddy, so it only seemed right, even if by coworker, I meant employees who were getting paid.

A couple of the guys stuck around for a bit.

Not surprisingly, the two of them had also worked the job that indirectly led me to meet Daddy.

One of them tried to apologize for that day.

Had they been feeling guilty this entire time?

Had they not seen the result of what had happened, thanks to that missing box?

I shook my head. “Never apologize for helping me find this guy.”

“Fine. I take it back. I’m glad it went missing. But real talk, this time, we got everything right.”

Whether they had or hadn’t didn’t really matter. The most important thing I owned—my crayons—were already here. They were irreplaceable. Technically, sure, I could go buy a new set. I’d even tried once before, after thinking it had been lost forever.

These crayons had led me to the man I loved. The man who loved me back. And I hadn’t been willing to risk them in another move, transporting them over when I brought Stu.

Just like with every move I’d made before, we started by unpacking my clothes.

It was easy. Low stakes. Fast results. Open one box and have a whole drawer done, and suddenly it feels like accomplishing something major.

After that, I unpacked my smaller things—my books, some photos, my computer—but Daddy stopped me as I opened a box marked little .

“I think we should put these somewhere else,” he said, lifting the box in his arms and walking away with zero explanation.

I called to him, “Okay? Where?”

He didn’t answer. He just kept walking, and I followed. Glenn led me to the room that, last time I saw it, had an old piece of exercise equipment leaning sideways in one corner, and a couple of totes filled with who-knew-what. Not much else.

I hesitated at the doorway. “Isn’t this gonna be a pain?” I didn’t want to come dig out my little items every time we wanted to play.

“Nope,” he said, turning toward me with a sparkle in his eye. “This is perfect. Can you open the door?”

When I did, I froze.

The room was completely transformed.

Somewhere along the line—somewhere between my saying yes to moving in and today—he had not only cleaned it out, he had painted the walls in the exact violet-blue color I loved most. On the floor was a new carpet that looked like it was for a classroom, covered in images of crayons.

On the wall was my display case, the one that started it all.

That wasn’t even the best of it. There was a crib. A crib. In my size. Along with a matching dresser that looked like it had been built from an actual crayon box.

In the back corner sat a little table with two chairs, and in the center of the table was a clever storage caddy filled with crayons. Not just any crayons. My crayons. The ones from my old place. The ones I’d thought I’d unpack later.

The whole space felt like a dream.

“When did you have time for this?” I asked, half whispering, afraid if I spoke too loudly I might wake myself up.

He just smiled. “I’m the boss. I make time. Do you like it?”

“Do I like it?” I stared at him in disbelief. “No. Of course I don’t.”

His smile faltered for half a second before I took the box from him, set it down, launched myself into his arms.

“I love it. It’s the most amazing room I’ve ever seen.”

I held him tighter than I ever had. “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you,” I murmured against his neck, probably a thousand times. “Thank you.”

I’d always wanted a crib. I’d never really said it out loud, not seriously, but something in me had always been drawn to it. The safety. The softness. The permission to rest.

“I saw you eyeing one that day at the auction,” he said.

I hadn’t realized I’d done that. But it made sense. It had caught my attention online, so I’d have been shocked if I hadn’t been drawn to it in person, as well.

“How about we get you ready for a nap?”

I didn’t even pretend to argue.

He helped me dig through a box until I found my pajamas—the ones with the cartoon monsters in crayon colors—and helped me get changed. He was so careful. Every button, every tug of fabric, was full of affection.

He scooped me up and carried me to the crib, setting me down gently first, so he could lower the side rail—it was on a sliding track and moved silently.

I wasn’t sure I’d ever even want that fourth side up.

Three sides were plenty. I wasn’t a baby, and I definitely couldn’t be lifted easily over the bars the way they were, and I wanted that, for Daddy to carry me to bed.

It wasn’t something I’d ever even had a passing thought of until he carried me over here, and now? Now, I longed for it.

“Put me in bed?” I’d been getting much better about asking for what I wanted.

Once again, he picked me up, this time setting me down on the mattress and pulling the sheets over me.

“Daddy,” I squeed. “Are these…are these crayon sheets too?”

He grinned. “You noticed.” As if there was a way for anyone not to.

“You outdid yourself on the theme.”

He smoothed the blanket over me, tucking it just right. Then he sat on the edge of the crib and brushed my hair away from my face with one hand.

“It still needs a little work,” he said. “But not too bad for a first attempt at a themed room.”

“How did you get the paint color so exact?” I asked, running my fingers over it. “It’s…it’s perfect.”

“Oh, that’s a secret, but I can tell you,” he said with a wink. “It’s magic.”

“Magic?”

“Magic. Color-matching technology. Same thing. I knew you’d recognize it.” He bent down and kissed my forehead.

“Now close your eyes,” he murmured, “and let Daddy tell you a story. About a little boy and his missing crayon.”

I closed my eyes, curled under the blanket, and listened as he told me the story of us.