Chapter 8: The Spare Key

Oliver

Lucas was at the front door at ten with a backpack and a tote bag.

"What's in the tote?"

"Stuff."

It made a glassy clink when he set it down to tie his shoe. I looked inside. There were three jars of peanut butter, two clean shirts, and one of the mugs from our kitchen.

"You know we have peanut butter at my house."

"You have the kind with the oil on top."

I picked up the tote. He let me carry it, which told me he knew he'd brought too much.

My mom had soup on the stove when we got to Newton. Lucas took off his shoes without being asked, put the tote on the counter, and gave her the hug I usually got if I'd been away for a month. She looked over his shoulder at me.

"Did you get your knee looked at?"

"Yes."

"Did you listen to what they told you?"

"I'm working on it."

Lucas made a small noise into her shoulder. She let him go and sent him to find bowls. He opened the right cabinet on the first try. He'd been eating in that kitchen since before either of us could reach the counter, and sometimes I still expected him to ask where things were.

After lunch I put the drill back in the basement. When I came upstairs, the backpack was gone. I found it in my room next to the old chair by the window. Lucas was crouched in front of the bottom dresser drawer, making room for his shirts.

"What are you doing?"

"Putting these away."

"I got that far."

He kept one hand on the drawer. "Can I stay here tonight?"

"What's wrong with your house?"

"Nothing."

He pushed a shirt into the corner of the drawer with two fingers. It was one of the good practice shirts he didn't let anybody borrow. He hadn't packed like somebody who was coming over for soup.

"You can take the guest room," I said.

"I can sleep on the couch in here."

"The guest room has a bed."

"I like the couch."

The couch was too short for him. He'd known it was too short since the summer we'd both outgrown it. I could have asked again. He'd probably have given me another answer that sounded reasonable if I ignored everything else he'd done all morning.

"Take your shoes off before you get on it," I said.

He looked up. "I already did."

"Then you're halfway there."

He shut the drawer. That should've been the end of it, but he followed me downstairs and stood in the mudroom while I took my car keys out of my pocket. The spare house key was on a hook beside the door. He reached for it and stopped before he touched it.

"Can I use that?"

"Your front door is next door."

"I know where my front door is."

He'd said it fast. I set my keys down. There were a lot of reasons to prefer my house to his, and some of them he'd never said out loud. I knew enough about his dad to quit asking him to defend the choice.

"Take it," I said. "If you lose it, tell me."

He took it off the hook. "I won't lose it."

"I didn't say you would."

He turned it over in his palm and clipped it onto his own ring. I went back upstairs and stripped the sheets off my bed. I hadn't planned to wash them until the next day. The couch blanket was in the same load, and if I did it now I could give it to him before he fell asleep.

The dryer was still going at midnight. I went to my room and found him on the couch under his jacket with one bare foot sticking off the end. He'd set an alarm for nine. His phone screen was still lit.

"There's a blanket coming," I said.

He opened one eye. "I'll take it when it's done."

"You'll be asleep."

"Then you can put it on me."

He closed his eye. I waited for him to add something that would make it a joke. He was breathing through his mouth by the time I gave up waiting.

I got the blanket when the dryer stopped and tucked it between the couch and the wall so it wouldn't fall. He rolled toward the back cushion as soon as the warm fabric touched his shoulder. His foot stayed out. I pulled the blanket down over it and got into bed.

In the morning I woke up to the sound of someone rattling a set of keys. Lucas had put his jeans on and was standing at the window, checking that the spare hadn't come off the ring.

"I'm going over to get a couple things," he said.

"Okay."

"I'll be right back."

"You don't have to report in."

He looked at me. I'd meant it to make things easier on him. From the look on his face, I'd managed to make him wonder whether I wanted him back at all.

"Leave the bag here," I said. "I can drive us back to the apartment later."

His shoulders dropped a little. "I might order something."

"What?"

"A mattress."

I sat up. He took a step toward the door.

"For here?" I asked.

"For me. I'll pay for it."

"That wasn't the part I was asking about."

He opened the door. I could see him considering whether to keep walking. Then he looked back into the room, at the couch he'd spent the night trying to fit onto.

"I like it here," he said.

I put my feet on the floor. The knee had stiffened up again, and I must have made a face, because he stopped in the doorway.

"Put some ice on that before you take the stairs," he said.

"I'll get it in a minute."

"I'll get it." He set his keys on the dresser and went downstairs.

I sat on the edge of the bed, looking at the house key among the keys he'd brought from the apartment. He'd clipped it between his car key and the key to his own front door. I didn't move it.