“No, no. I’m definitely ready to talk,” he said. “Excited, even.”
“Okay,” I said, and blew out a breath. I could feel my pulse hammering in my chest, and I knew this was a big moment. “Are you sure you don’t want to wait until I get back? So we’re face-to—”
“Hanna,” he said, laughing. “I’m ready to start the rest of my life with you. Talk to me.”
“Right, right. Yes. Like I told you before, I couldn’t see you in Berkeley. And I’m definitely sure I couldn’t see you in Pasadena. Caltech was great, but not for me. Not for us. You okay with that?”
“More than okay, Plum.”
“I know there are a few things we’re still waiting on, but I think I like Harvard. Their program is amazing; the school is top-notch, obviously. It’s a little less money than Princeton, but I think I have some negotiating room there, even though I know New Jersey would definitely be the easiest in terms of living arrangements and the general upheaval of our lives—”
“You know that’s not a factor for me,” he said. “You haven’t spent your entire adult life building a career so you can do what’s easiest.”
“I know, and thank you for getting that. I see many blow jobs in your future for being such an amazing, understanding husband. I love you.”
“I love you, too.” He paused. “So . . . Harvard?” he asked, and it was impossible to miss the hopefulness in his voice.
“I think so? They really want me, and I think I’d have the most flexibility there, which . . . is something I really want. Balance. You remember that, don’t you?” I said, smiling into my dark hotel room.
“Balance sounds pretty fucking great. So we’re moving back to Boston, then?”
“If you think you could be happy there?”
“I think I could be happy wherever you are,” he said, and I was pretty sure he was smiling, too.
If this Harvard thing didn’t pan out, Will and I could definitely not fall back on a career as professional movers.
The first weekend after Caltech, and only three days before our honeymoon, we woke up, made coffee together, went for a run, met friends for brunch, and headed home. It dissolved into chaos from there.
By eleven that morning, we’d accomplished nothing more than covering our living room in folded cardboard boxes. I somehow managed to tape my ponytail to a box, and when Will finally found me, painstakingly trying to remove a strip of boxing tape from my hair, he ended up going down on me on the coffee table.
I wasn’t actually sure how it happened.
Not that I was complaining.
In our bedroom, we decided to tackle Will’s comic book collection.
The bedside table is where most men would keep porn. Though as I watched Will unload precious issue after issue and then stack them reverently on the bed with a sort of wild, glazed look in his eyes, I realized this was identical to his reaction to porn anyway.
I flopped on the bed and started skimming an issue. In my peripheral vision I sensed Will watching me, brows furrowed and a frown tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Hanna,” he said, gently scooping up a few I might, maybe, have accidentally lain on. “Careful, baby. Some of these are older than you are.”
“Oh, right. Sorry.”
Will began carefully loading them into boxes and I picked up a copy with a particularly busty heroine on the cover.
“Really, Will?” I said, holding it up for him to see. Thanks to a rather large cleavage-displaying cutout, she was practically spilling out of her costume. “I’ve seen a lot of questionable outfits these girls are made to wear, but this is ridiculous bordering on obscene. How could anyone be expected to fight crime in this?”
“Oh, wow,” he said, ignoring my rant entirely and beginning to thumb through the pages. “I haven’t seen this in years.”
“What on earth is her power? Does she pummel bad guys with her boobs? What is this outfit she’s wearing? I think I cover more when I shower.”
“This is Power Girl, and her costume looks like this for a reason.”
“Is the reason so teen boys can wank without actually having to buy porn?”
When he didn’t say anything, my eyes widened.
“Oh my God!” I said.
“I think I’ve got this,” he mumbled, continuing to stack comics in boxes with a lot less care than he had a minute ago.
I rolled on the bed, giggling. “Wait until I tell Max you masturbated to a comic book.”
“Hanna, most guys masturbate to comic books. It’s like masturbation training wheels.”
“Okay, well, you just made this a lot less fun for me, though I will say your boob fetish makes a hell of a lot more sense now.”
And that’s how, by half-past noon, we ended up having sex on a stack of old comic books. He might never admit it, but I think Teenage Will just checked something off his bucket list.
At five, Will was going through a box of books in the living room when I passed him on my way to the kitchen.