Page 46 of The Warmth of Our Closest Star

Home.

That word stuck in my head. Peter had told me I could come home to him.

My horrible little apartment in Montreal that was never warm enough or clean enough or quiet enough or safe enough had grown on me over time. It had served its purpose. It held ghosts in every corner. Of my mother. My sister. My brother. But it had never been home.

Peter was my home.

The United States was my home.

And I could finally go home.

Those ghosts would have to go with me and learn to appreciate their new home as well.

In the following weeks, I sold furniture and belongings to neighbors and coworkers. I threw out everything not fit to pass on to others or donate to charity shops. Other than my personal toiletries and my clothing, I stored a few sentimental items in a box, packing it carefully, before taping it shut securely.

I quit my job.

And then I went home.

We’d still have a year before I could apply for full citizenship and take my citizenship exam and pledge, but we were on our way.

“I get to pick out your underwear,” Peter said, ripping me from my daydreams.

“Quoi?” I shook my head. “What?”

Peter laughed. “We’ll go buy some clothes for you.”

“Okay?”

“And I’m picking out your underwear,” he said, winking at me as he eased the car forward a few inches with a glance through the windshield. “I’m thinking I’d like to see you in some tight little boxer briefs tonight. Black. With a gray waistband.”

Even after two years of marriage—the things Peter and I had done together and uttered during our phone calls—he never failed to make me blush.

“And only that,” Peter said. “I want an evening of leering at my husband as he walks around in nothing but his underwear.”

I cleared my throat. “Is that all? Do the underwear ever come off?”

Peter growled playfully at me, making me chuckle, before he kissed the back of my hand again. Then he nibbled at it, making me laugh and yank my hand away.

“Oh,” Peter said, “look at that. People learned where their gas pedals are.”

I was still laughing as Peter’s car began to move forward steadily, then finally, at a speed one would expect on a freeway.

“Why don’t we stop for a coffee?” Peter suggested. “Sit and enjoy this moment together? Then we’ll go get some clothes to get you through the next few days. Then we’ll go home.”

“Home,” I parroted, smiling out at the road laid out before us.

“Home!” Peter howled the word like a wolf.

Of course, I laughed. My husband was ridiculous. And I loved it.

Overladen with bags from Target, along with my nearly empty to-go cup from the coffee shop, I somehow managed to shove my way through the front door of Peter’s—our—house. Peter, behind me, his arms as full as mine, laughed as I stumbled into the house. Though Peter had suggested a trip to the store to buy enough clothes to get me through a few days until my luggage from the airport was located, he had gone overboard. I had intended to buy a few t-shirts and maybe some gym shorts and a pair of jeans, along with some underwear and socks.

Peter ended up having different ideas.

I had told Peter as we waited to check out at the gargantuan store that I felt horrible that he was buying me so many clothes when it wasn’t needed. However, he once again reminded me that there was no his and mine. We only had ours now. So, I swallowed down my embarrassment and shame and let him have his way. Having a whole new wardrobe, even from a store such as Target, was a dream for me. Nothing was secondhand or thrifted. All of the clothes in the bags would be worn for the first time by me. Well, probably. I could easily ignore the logic that surely someone had tried the items on before.

Of course, I had let Peter go wild in the men’s underwear department, picking out the underwear he most wanted to see on me. Though I had been clear that anything uncomfortable would stay in its package. Needless to say, I ended up with enough new underwear to last me for years. So, that helped me feel less awful about all of the new clothing. In fact, the way his eyes lit up with each article of clothing I selected, as though he couldn’t wait to see me in it, made me feel less horrible. I began to realize that Peter’s insistence on buying clothes for me was not only a kindness to me. My husband obviously had derived some sensual glee from thinking about discovering my body in all different styles of clothing.