Page 29 of Making It Burn
"Absolutely."
For the next three hours, we worked.The movers did the heavy lifting, hauling furniture and boxes up to the fourth floor, while Mason and I directed traffic—this goes in the bedroom, that goes in the living room, the kitchen stuff goes to the right.
And the whole time, I was hyperaware of Mason.The way he'd taken charge of organizing the boxes by room, his exacting brain turning chaos into order.The way he'd stopped to help one of the movers navigate a tight corner, his muscles flexing as he lifted one end of my couch.
This was torture.Exquisite, domestic torture.
"Where do you want this?"Mason called from the bedroom doorway, holding a box labeled BOOKS.
"Anywhere is fine.I haven't figured out where the bookshelf is going yet."
He disappeared into the bedroom, and I forced myself not to follow him.Not to imagine him in that space, surrounded by my things, part of my life in a way that went beyond case files and conference rooms.
By noon, the movers were gone, and the condo looked like a bomb had gone off—boxes everywhere, furniture in various states of assembly, packing paper covering every surface.
Mason stood in the middle of the living room, hands on his hips, surveying the chaos."You need a strategy."
"I need a nap."
"You need to unpack the essentials first.Kitchen stuff, bathroom, bedroom.Everything else can wait."
"How are you so organized?"
"Practice."He picked up a box labeled KITCHEN and carried it to the counter."Come on.Let's at least get your kitchen functional so you can eat something other than protein bars."
We spent the next hour unpacking dishes and glasses, organizing drawers and cabinets.Mason had opinions about everything—the wine glasses should go here, the coffee mugs should be within easy reach of the coffee maker, the knives needed a proper block.
"You're very bossy," I said, watching him arrange my spice jars in alphabetical order.
"You're very disorganized."
"I'm an artist."
"You're a corporate attorney."
"I contain multitudes."
He looked at me, and for just a second, I saw it—that crack in the armor, the hint of a smile."You're ridiculous."
"And yet, here you are.Helping me."
"Because Patsy told me to."
"Right.Patsy."I leaned against the counter, watching him work."You do everything she tells you?"
"Yes.She's terrifying."
"She's a sweetheart."
"She's a terrifying sweetheart."Mason closed the cabinet and turned to face me."Where do you keep your coffee?"
"Haven't unpacked it yet.Want to order lunch?I'm starving."
"What are you in the mood for?"
"Pizza.There's a place around the corner that's supposed to be amazing."
Twenty minutes later, we were sitting on my living room floor—the couch wasn't assembled yet—with a large pepperoni pizza between us.
