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She looks at Gillian, and they both get up.
“You’ve turned over a leaf. Now you’re treating her like a princess.” Gillian walks by the two of us and heads upstairs with Briar right after her.
I can’t wait to see what kind of person Briar is without Gillian around.
Thankfully, Ben blocks me from seeing Briar’s ass by walking up the stairs before me.
When we reach the top, the two women are discussing closet space.
“You should take this one,” Gillian says. No coincidence, I’m sure, that it’s the farthest from my bedroom.
“Yeah, but this one has the en suite, and it has the walk-in closet.” Briar gravitates toward the bedroom right next to mine.
“I’m sure you don’t want to share a wall with him,” Gillian says.
“Can we hurry this up?” Ben repositions the boxes again, almost dropping them.
“When did I become just ‘him?’” I ask.
Gillian glances over but doesn’t really look at me, and she doesn’t answer my question.
“This one, Ben, thanks.” Briar points at the one where our beds will share a wall.
I bite the inside of my cheek and look away because trying not to look at Gillian is like driving by a car on the side of the road pulled over by the police after they flashed their lights and sped by you. It’s oddly satisfying.
“Are you sure?” Gillian asks.
“She’s sure,” Ben says and walks by his soon-to-be wife, placing the boxes on the floor.
I furnished all the rooms one by one over the years I’ve lived here. Not that I get a ton of visitors, but I like it feeling like a home instead of vacant rooms. So she’s got a queen bed, a dresser, and a vanity in the room she chose.
“I love the paint color,” Briar says.
“It’s Meet Cute.”
“I’m sorry?” she asks.
“The paint color. It’s called Meet Cute.” I point at the blush color on the wall.
Gillian grunts and stares at Ben.
“I’m gonna go get more boxes,” he says, fleeing the room like a fly escaping from a fly swatter.
“Let’s start unpacking,” Gillian says and eyes me. Man, I am not her favorite person these days.
“No, Gill, I’ll get there. I barely have anything,” Briar says.
While they hash it out, I jog down the stairs to get more boxes. The sooner we get Briar moved in, the quicker Gillian will leave.
I walk out of the house and back to the car. Ben is tripling the boxes up as if he’s a professional mover.
“You’re going to kill your back.”
“Cut the shit,” Ben says, not moving.
Are we playing a game of who can hold the most weight?
I grab four boxes, but they’re smaller. One has a diaper logo on the side, and I think about how ironic that is. “What shit? About your back?”
