Page 211 of The Fall
“Are you… asking me to move in with you?”
He doesn’t mean for tonight or until morning or until training camp starts up again. He means open drawers and closet space and two toothbrushes lined up on marble.
Blair’s eyes hold mine. “Yes.” He takes a breath. “Move in with me, Torey.”
I touch his face, run my fingers along his jaw. “It’s fast,” I say.
“Too fast?” he asks, and there’s vulnerability there, a crack in his usual confidence.
I shake my head. “No.”
“I don’t want to waste time on what we’re supposed to do when I know what feels right. I want you in my life. I want to be with you all the time, and I don’t want to pretend that I don’t.”
“I want that too.” I want his house and his bed and his life. I want mornings and evenings and all the moments between.
He leans in, kissing me as he says, “Then let’s do this.”
The drive to my apartment passes in a blur. Blair’s hand takes mine whenever he doesn’t need it as if he can’t bear to not touch me.
When we pull into my complex’s parking lot, I feel a strange disconnect. This place was never home, but now it feels even less so, a temporary shelter I’ve outgrown.
The door swings open to reveal my sad bachelor existence in all its glory: a one-bedroom box with white walls and furniture picked for price instead of comfort. It looks unlived in because it is. I’ve been existing here, not living.
“I’ll grab clothes,” I tell Blair. “Can you check the kitchen and living room for what’s worth keeping? I’ve got some protein and recovery mixes.”
He nods, already moving. “Got it.”
In the bedroom, I throw open dresser drawers and the closet. There’s not much to pack. I fold my jeans into the bottom of my duffel bag, shove my shirts above them and ball up my socks in the gaps between. Toiletries from the bathroom, my good watch from the nightstand, the sketch pad I keep beside the bed; everything that matters fits in one bag, which says something about the life I’ve been living here. The room looks no emptier for my having packed.
Blair’s Mutineers jersey—the one I’ve slept with—is bunched beneath my pillow, and I stuff it into the bottom of my bag.
When I return to the living room, Blair is sitting on my couch with one of my sketchbooks open in his lap. It’s a hockey one, filled with action shots from games and practices. And filled, mostly, with Blair: Blair taking face-offs. Blair celebrating goals,Blair with his head bowed in the locker room, shoulders bearing the cross of captaincy.
“These were on the TV stand,” he says.
I set my duffel down. “Which one is that?”
He turns the book toward me. It’s open to a drawing of him on the bench, head tilted back, water bottle raised to his lips. The details are precise: the curve of his throat, the flex of his hand, the intensity in his eyes even in a moment of rest.
“How long have you drawn?”
“For forever. It helps me think.”
“And you think about hockey. And about me.” He turns a sly look up to me, one I’ll have to capture in graphite later.
“I do, a lot.”
For one wild second all those nights alone replay in fast-forward: sleepless hours spent chasing lines across paper while wishing for thisexactmoment—him, here, looking at me exactly like this.
“Is this really how you see me?” he asks quietly.
I nod, unable to find words for the way I see him. He is the axis my world tilts on, and my drawings are a poor substitute for the truth of him. “I’ve always seen you,” I say quietly.
He turns another page, where I’ve captured him mid-celly, arms raised. The charcoal smudges slightly under his fingertips. “I’m starting to understand that,” he whispers.
Then he closes the sketchbook and adds it to a small stack on the coffee table and stands, gathering the books. “Is this everything you want to take?”
“Yeah, I’m all packed.”
