Page 35 of Rebound
Since you’re clearly not changing your mind. I’ll be at home tomorrow, so feel free to move your things in.
And don’t you fucking dare send me another flirty text.
Foiled again!
Kuriakose and Elias help me move my suitcases over, and my brother leaves without offering to help unpack. Tamara steps in without a word, unzipping duffle bags and pulling out my things like it’s normal. I don’t stop her. Instead, I fill up the built-in wardrobes and settle into my home for the next nine months, at least. Much like the rest of the apartment, the bedroom is spacious with a king bed in the centre. Dark curtains cover the windows to keep out the sun, so the room stays cool through the day. Thankfully, there’s a split AC I’ll most certainly be using in this unrelenting heat.
It has been a week since I moved in with the mother of my unborn child. I appreciate that she fought me every step of the way, because I don’t want easy. I want to prove to her this is important. While she’s accepted being a mother, it’ll take me a little longer to wrap my head around becoming a father. Living with her should help me get comfortable with this decision. Even if it’s going to absolutely kill me being in such close proximity to her.
In that time, we’ve discussed what it’s going to be like living together. Since she owns the apartment, I insist we split the major utilities like electricity, water, property taxes and internet. When I bring up food, she shrugs it off. So a sweep of her fridge proves Tamara’s not someone who cooks or eats healthy. I don’t blame her, eating out is easy and sometimes quicker than having to prepare a meal. But I like cooking. So I offer to buy the groceries, cook, and go over the accounts at the end of the first month to see how much it works out to. She wasn’t impressed, but accepted.
However, I wasn’t fully prepared to live with a woman. The last time I lived with someone, I was sixteen and sharing a bedroom with Elias while Nina slept next door. We used the same bathroom and her things were everywhere. Mostly her hair. That’s normal, apparently. Every morning I find a ball of Tamara’s curly hair floating around in the apartment and by the end of the week, I’m pretty sure I could have made a wig.
We’ve gotten into something of a routine, thankfully, which is good for my mental health.
Elias set me up at his gym, so I wake up before the sun and get through an hour and a half of exercise every morning. Thanks to hockey and the trainer I’ve worked with for years, I know my regimen off the top of my head and working through them is therapeutic. I get home before she wakes up and start on my coffee and her tea.
Tamara is not a morning person. But seeing her rumpled, mumbly and braless is a gift I don’t take for granted. Her T-shirts are oversized and her shorts are minuscule, flaunting her stretch mark riddled soft thighs and long legs. The best part is her hair. I miss the curly mop that was frizzy in the morning during summer camp. This, however? Even better. Her curls are thick and unruly. It’s always sticking up in different directions and she doesn’t care.
Tamara Chandy, first thing in the morning, is a feast for the eyes.
I can resist sugar and alcohol without an issue, but she’s the temptation I wasn’t fully prepared for.
Today, she’s wearing one of my T-shirts and I don’t know if she’s aware. I did a load of laundry the other day and clearly she tossed her things in with mine, then unloaded it when it was done. Now she’s commandeered this shirt and I’m totally okay with it. In fact, it looks better on her than it ever did on me. The base is pale pink while the chaotic pattern is a darker shade. It stops just above her knees and even though I know she’s wearing shorts, I feel this weird sense of possessiveness that my clothes are touching her bare skin.
“Thank you,” she mumbles and picks up her ginormous mug of tea.
This is her routine and I have to remind myself not to disrupt it. As she walks to the front door on bare feet, she takes a large gulp even though it’s scalding. I don’t know how her tastebuds are still functioning, because I wince every time she does it. She pulls the two newspapers out of the bag hanging on her front door and carries them to the couch. It really depends on the day, sometimes she’ll sit at the dining table and spread it out across the surface and read it while standing. Other days, like today, she’ll plonk herself on the couch and take her leisurely time navigating the newspaper cover to cover.
Oh yeah, she reads every article and mutters to herself if it’s something gruesome.
“You’re staring,” she calls out and takes another sip of her burning hot tea.
“Just wondering where you got that shirt from.”
“Laundry hamper.”
I hum and refill my coffee. “Did you find any more in there?”
“Maybe. It’s a very full hamper.”
“I should probably empty it today.”
“I’m sure you’re busy, I’ll do it after work tonight.”
I love that she wants to steal my clothes. As long as it continues to smell like her—honeysuckle and cinnamon—I have no fucking objection.
“What do you want for breakfast?”
“Food.”
“Oh, we’ve graduated from nothing to food.”
“Sassing is my thing, you’re bad at it.”
Smiling, I sip on my coffee. “My apologies, Your Highness. What kind of food are you inclined to eat today?”
“I dunno.” She slurps her tea loudly and my skin crawls. “Surprise me.”
