Page 21 of Dear #47, You're the Worst
I snatch it from his hands before he can drop it and ruin months of thrift store hunting. "That's vintage. Mid-century modern. If you break it, I will break you."
"Copy that," he says, backing away with his hands raised in mock surrender. "Death by lighting fixture. Got it."
“Har har har, so funny. You’re a real comedian.”
The smirk he shoots me is dripping with irony.
The afternoon passes in a series of small territorial disputes. Hunter treats the shared spaces like his personal dumping ground, leaving things wherever he happens to set them down. I follow behind him, rearranging and organizing, creating systems he immediately ignores.
Figures. Typical male bullshit.
Later, in my bedroom, I'm arranging my perfume tray on top of the beige dresser when I hear him lean against the doorframe. I can feel his presence without looking up. Bottles lined up by size, glass trays angled just so, everything in its perfect place. It's a ritual that calms me, this careful arrangement of beautiful things.
"You've got a whole tray just for smells?"
His voice carries a note of genuine curiosity rather than mockery, which surprises me. I ignore him and keep arranging, hoping he'll take the hint and leave me to finish unpacking in peace.
But Hunter has never been good at taking hints. He walks into my room anyway, which violates about three of our freshly laminated house rules. His presence makes the space feel smaller, more intimate than it should.
"What's this one?" He picks up a tiny crystal vial, one of my more expensive purchases.
I hesitate, my mouth puckering, not sure why I'm about to be honest with him. "The scent Patrick hated."
Patrick, my ex-boyfriend of five years. The hockey player who had opinions about everything I wore, everything I bought, everything I did. The one who slowly chipped away at my confidence until I wasn't sure what I liked anymore.
Hunter sets the bottle down carefully, more gently than I expected. "And now you wear it?"
"Out of spite."
He makes a humming sound, unreadable, and starts to walk away. But when he glances back at me from the doorway, there's something in his expression I can't place. Not mockery. Not quite curiosity either.
Something that looks almost like understanding. Like maybe he gets what it means to reclaim pieces of yourself that someone else tried to take away.
Either that or he is just trying to figure out how to move my delicate art deco lamp back into my bedroom when I’m not looking. Probably that.
He moves into the living room, following me, and I hand him a laminated sheet of paper. The house rules, typed up in professional font and protected by plastic for durability.
"You laminated the house rules," he says flatly, holding the paper like it might bite him.
"I did."
He grunts, reading through the list with what I can only describe as resigned acceptance. Then he drops his gym bag directly in front of my carefully positioned bar cart, completely blocking access to my grandmother's crystal decanters.
I don't hesitate. I drag the bag across the hardwood floor, not caring if I scuff the polished oak, and dump it outside his bedroom door with more force than strictly necessary.
"Petty," he mutters, but he doesn't move the bag back.
"Basic hygiene. Learn about it."
We immediately get into our first real fight over the thermostat. I turn it up to a reasonable seventy-five degrees, a temperature that will suit us both. He turns it back down to a subarctic sixty five.
"Seventy-five is not hot," I say, adjusting it again while giving him a frosty glare. "I think better when I'm not freezing."
"I don't want to die of heat exhaustion in my own living room," he fires back without a trace of embarrassment.
“You’re being dramatic.”
"You can put on more clothes. I can’t wear any less. Buy a hoodie."
