Paul needs not to do stupid things.
Originally published in our July 2015 newsletter
Paul groans when his phone rings, conscious but not really awake. He rolls right to grope for it, but hits Alex’s face before rolling back the other way towards his night stand. Instead of finishing unpacking at any point over the last four days, they’d rearranged the bedroom, twice. Paul isn’t entirely sure why, although he suspects it’s his fault.
He slaps his phone off, and breathes heavily, staring at the ceiling and debating consciousness. It’s a beautiful California morning and he has nowhere to be. Which means he should be writing if he’s not still sleeping. Alex makes an annoyed sound next to him, and as if on cue Paul’s phone starts ringing again.
He curses under his breath. It’s Carly.
He rolls himself out of bed and into the hallway so he won’t bother Alex with whatever this is. “God, what?” he says when he’s halfway downstairs.
“We won,” she says.
“What did we win?” Paul has no idea what she’s talking about, but he’s pretty sure that’s his fault and not hers.
“The Supreme Court?”
“Fuck. Where are we gonna put it?”
It takes him a second to say anything to that too. He’s no more sure where to put marriage than where to put an entire Supreme Court. He wonders if they come with the building.
“Wait, wait, what… fuck!” he says as his brain comes on line and reaches the bottom of the stairs and promptly trips over a box that should have gone with Gemma and somehow didn’t.
“Marriage for everyone! Now be a good boy and don’t go wake Alex up and propose.”
“I should totally go wake Alex up.”
“Don’t propose!” Carly says again.
“Jesus. You didn’t call to tell me the news. You called to see if I’m stupid.”
“I know you’re stupid,” she points out.
“I’ll call you back.” Paul hangs up on her.
He heads back up the stairs, taking them two by two and scaring Todd out from under the bed as he drops down on it.
“What’s wrong with you?” Alex asks as if it’s all one word, his eyes still closed.
“We won. Supreme court. Marriage.”
Alex scrubs a hand over his face. “Cool.”
“That’s it? Cool?”
“Do we have to talk about it?”
“And do we have to do anything about it?”
“Well,” then Alex says with a grin. “Cool.”
It’s not quite what Paul wanted, although he’s not quite sure what he wanted. But it’s comfortable, and at eight am on a random Friday morning with no where to be and nothing to do that seems pretty damn good.