One Summer Isn't Enough (Summer, #4)

chapter 12

CONRAD

"Belly, how much stuff do you own? I've been hauling boxes for an hour," I groan, wiping sweat from my brow as I call out to her from the moving truck.

The day after we flew back from Hawaii, Belly texted me a selfie with a bunch of Home Depot moving boxes tucked under her arm. She had flown to California to clean up some last-minute things, and I had come to Boston because I needed to go back to the clinic. When she texted me the picture, I assumed it would take a few weeks, maybe even a month until she was actually all cleared to make the move. But two days later, she texted me another picture of her flight ticket to Boston, captioned with a mere see you soon next to a red heart emoji. I was so surprised, honestly, but I also kind of knew that she would get it done. She's never liked it when something that she wanted done was taking forever to happen.

I tracked her flight all morning and saw that she was supposed to land at 2:30 pm. So I made a huge sign that said WELCOME HOME BELLY BUTTON and taped string lights to the borders, and stopped by the florist to pick up a bouquet of lilies. I wanted to embarrass her, yes, but I also wanted her to see how excited I was to start our new lives together. God knows I have trouble showing it most of the time.

She picked up her luggage and walked towards the airport exit, dressed in baggy gray sweats and her favorite big Cousins shirt. When she saw me holding up my big-ass sign and waving, she smiled her signature Jelly Belly smile and ran towards me, flinging her arms around my neck as she abandoned her suitcases. I kissed her hard and then buried my face in her hair that always smells like lemons and vanilla. She was here. For good, this time.

After giving me endless shit for the sign and then taking it back after I threatened to dump her flowers, we drove home. She put her favorite Motown girl-group music on, and it actually didn't sound as bad as I usually find it. After a thirty-ish minute drive, we finally got to my– our–place. I live in a small exposed-brick condo squished in between two neighboring houses, and what Belly loved most about it was how it looked straight out of a Disney movie in the winter, when the roof was covered with snow. But now, since it was the ending of August, it wouldn't be cold enough to even slightly chill a glass of lemonade, it's so hot out. Which brings us to our current dilemma: moving her endless possessions into the house when it's 100 degrees outside.

"I do not have that much stuff. It's just a lot of books and design stuff," she shouts back, coming back out of the house. I roll my eyes when I catch sight of her copy of The Hunger Games–she swears it's the best book I'll ever read, but I honestly can never see why. Plot was good, but could have ended a lot quicker if Katniss let other people help her for once.

Well, I guess I can't really be the one pointing fingers.

Once all of the boxes have been hauled into the living room and we sent the truck off, Belly collapses onto the couch. "So. Tired," she groans, covering her eyes with her arm.

"Nuh, uh," I say, pulling her up so she's standing in front of me. "We have some unpacking to do." In an attempt to make her more enthusiastic about this, I twirl her around where she's standing, and she laughs. She twirls me, too, but since I'm a good three inches taller than her, she ends up almost falling over in the process. Either way, we're both laughing hysterically by the time we're done...dancing? She chuckles again before catching sight of the boxes and automatically shifting into her get-shit-done mode.
"Okay, so let's tackle one box at a time. I think we'll just end up making a mess if we split the stuff up, so let's empty one by one."

I salute at her and then get to work with cutting open the boxes, but what I really want to do is get her back on that couch, preferably on top of me. She probably wants to get this done really badly, though, so I guess I'll keep my hands to myself.

Three laborious hours later, we've finished putting all of her stuff up and have folded away the boxes to put out for recycling on Thursday. To celebrate, Belly made hot cocoa, but she dug out Mom's old champagne glasses from one of the cabinets I never open (how she remembers where these things are, I have no idea) and poured it into those instead. So we sit out in the patio, watching the sun set as we clink our glasses.

"To...new beginnings," she proclaimed, gazing over at me.

"Actually, to you, who made this move happen a hell of a lot faster than I thought you would," I correct her. I lean over for a kiss before continuing, "To Mrs. Fisher, the get-shit-done-er."

"To Conrad Fisher, who motivates me to get shit done!" she combats, and I laugh.

And then we put our glasses down at almost the same moment, as if we were both thinking the same thing, as we simultaneously lean in and our lips meet. And just like that, I'm all wrapped up on her again. Even when I'm carrying her up the stairs, into the bedroom, I'm still in Belly Fisher's world. As she says my name over and over again and I'm lost in her, I decide that come hell or high water, I'm never leaving this world.

When she's fast asleep that night in my t-shirt, I go downstairs for a glass of water and see our glasses of cocoa still in the patio, reflecting the soft white light of the moon.