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“Indeed, indeed. I’ll be in touch with the comparative market analysis and the listing agreement. Then we can schedule the photoshoot and?—”
“Great. Look forward to it.”
I hung up and tossed my phone onto the table.
“So,” Luke said with a laugh, “you weren’t kidding about selling.”
“I wasn’t kidding about any of it,” I replied. “I’m so done with all that fake bullshit.”
“Me too,” he said quietly. “I get it. It just feels so... greasy.”
“Yes! Greasy and fake. I want to look at a new place for us, but I want us to pick it. No real estate agents trying to sell us what we don’t need.”
His eyes were studying me, a smile pulling at his lips. “Living together, huh?”
“Well, yeah... Because we’ve lived together pretty much since we were sixteen.”
“Yes, but notliving togetherliving together. Like... a couple.”
My stomach dropped. “Do you not want to live together? I thought you said?—”
“Yes, of course I do.”
I clutched my chest. “God, my heart just fell through my ass.”
He burst out laughing.
“I thought you were gonna say no.”
He shook his head, amused. “Never. Of course I want to live with you. Hell, yes.”
“Same bedroom?” I asked. “You said before we would, so there are no take-backs.”
He grinned. “Depends. Do you still leave your shit all over the floor?”
I sighed. “See, the best part of living with your best friend is that they know you so well, and the worst part of living with your best friend is also that they know you so well.”
He laughed, put his hands behind his head, and closed his eyes, looking peaceful and happy. After a few minutes, his foot began to tap, and then his lips were popping quietly, and I knew what he was doing.
He was writing music in his head.
Then he shot up and grabbed his notebook, scribbling down bars and chords. It made me laugh.
He shot me a brief glance. “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing. I just knew you were writing music in your head. Your foot taps first, then your lips do this thing...” I mimicked him.
He made a face at me and went back to writing musical notation. “What did you just say about the best and worst parts of living with your best friend?”
I chuckled. “That we know each other so well.”
He picked up his guitar and strummed out some chords, pausing to write it down. It reminded me of our time at the cabins, two weeks and a lifetime ago.
“You’ve been writing a lot more,” I said quietly.
He nodded, not looking up from his notepad. “It’s cheaper than therapy.”
“Those songs we sang at the cabins before,” I said, “they were great.”
