Steve and I moved into the Compound together. We shared our own wing of the Compound. It had two rooms for us to claim, then a corridor that led to a small kitchen and a living room. Although we had separate rooms, we chose to stay in one together and use the other for storage.
It worked. We valued a clean and tidy room, we switched off on making dinner every few days, we gave Max the best care we could. Max typically roamed the Compound of his own volition, but he knew to come back to our wing for food and to sleep. I adored it. I adored living with our dog and with Steve.
To come back to our room at the end of the long day and be comforted by his arms around me and our dog at our feed was a good adjustment, by all means.
He didn't notice how much I spoke French to myself until we lived together. It was my first language, but with living in America and losing my parents at a young age, I only knew minimal phrases and words. Still, it was habit by now to revert to my first language when I didn't have to speak to someone. It felt like I was honoring my parents, their memory, to continue the French traditions.
Steve tried. His mom was Irish, he told me, and he understood the way I wanted to honor them. He, in return, bought a book to try to learn French.
I decided to come home one night with a book that showcased '40s slang words. I didn't debut it until Steve and I were sat on the couch together, our feet stretched at each other's hips. Max had managed to wiggle up on the couch with us, laid on top of us.
"He's lucky he's cute," muttered Steve, rubbing Max's head.
"Oh, you love him," I teased.
I flipped through the book, trying to find something relevant to start a conversation. Pages and pages of nothing that made sense to me passed.
"Wanna go out steppin'?" I asked; the first thing I recognized. When I realized what I said, I shook my head. "Nope, nevermind. I have two left feet. I'll keep looking."
Steve looked at me with confusion. "What?"
"Well, I figure, if you're gonna learn French, maybe I should learn some slang," I said playfully, holding up the book. I continued to flip through it. "Maybe it's good for you to not forget about where you came from, too."
I felt his gaze on me. I didn't bother to look up. I heard his lips split, trying to find the words, and close because he couldn't for a few minutes.
"Peggy," he said softly. The ghost of a smile appeared on his face. "When I put the plane in ice, that was what I told her. I'd meet her at the Stork Club. Give her a dance."
I patted his leg with sympathy. I started to flip through the book again. "Well, I won't offer to be your partner, 'cause I can't dance, and also since that's your thing."
Unlike I expected, Steve didn't drop the conversation. He turned off the TV, tossed the remote on the coffee table, and took the book from me. I pouted, meeting his eyes.
"What was that for?" I said. "I was learning--"
"Why are you like that?" he said, his brow furrowed, "Why are you okay with me speaking about Peggy? I loved her, Clara."
"I had a first love, too. I don't know if anyone really stops loving their first love. But I don't know where mine ended up, and I'm sorry to say that Peggy won't be young again," I mumbled. Without the book, I felt odd and didn't meet his eyes. "We've got each other now. You fall in love more than once."
"With you, you mean?" asked Steve.
"If that's what your heart desires," I said mysteriously, giggling. I met his eyes. "Then, yeah, with me."
Steve opened his arms. I fell sideways on his lap, my arms wrapped around his neck.
"You're too good for me, Clara Blake," he whispered in my ear.
"Nonsense, sugar."
"That one was used nicely."