He places his hand on my back as I walk from room to room. “I can’t believe I’m lucky enough to have you all to myself.”

I turn to him, my hands on his chest. “Shut up. I’m the lucky one, Dylan.”

He takes my wrists, and kisses the palm of each hand. “We’re both lucky.”

“I’ll get a job to help pay for things.”

“It’s not necessary, but I do think it’ll be good for you.”

I nod.

“So are we moving in today or what?” he asks.

“We’re here. Now. Why not?”

Eric and his dad help us move my bed and his fridge using Dylan’s truck. Mom raids the house for whatever she can give us. I can tell she’s sad to see me go and I’m sure she was more than hesitant when Dylan brought up the idea, but she’s doing exactly what she’s always done. She’s doing what’s best for me. I’m sure the fact that I’m only a ten-minute walk away helps. Dylan makes plans with Logan and Amanda to come over the next day so Amanda can give us ideas on how to decorate since she’s apparently into that stuff. I don’t tell him that the idea of getting to know his friends on more than a “Hey, I knew you in high school” level absolutely terrifies me. It’s not so much that they’re intimidating, because I don’t think they are. I think it’s more my worry about being compared to Heidi. I don’t know. I just hope they like me. And accept me. Because I don’t plan on going anywhere.

We make love on the kitchen counter. And in the shower. And finally in our bed. And we make plans. Stupid plans. Things like turning the guestroom into storage for random clown and moth paintings.

I hate moths.

He hates clowns.

We spend the night laughing, not bothering to stifle them in case we wake anyone, and when exhaustion finally takes over, we fall asleep the way we do every night—with his arms around me, and my arms around him—keeping each other safe.

*     *     *

I hide out in the bathroom when Dylan tells me Logan and Amanda are close. I don’t know what else to do with nerves so high and my hands so shaky.

Dylan knocks on the door. “Babe, Amanda’s here.”

“I’ll be out in a minute.”

I check my make-up free face in the mirror—once pale, now a little tanner since I’ve started leaving the house. I check my eyes, gray and full of hope, and I look down at my dress, hoping it’s enough. I curse myself for not being more like my mother—a woman who enjoys the wonders of hair and make-up. A woman like Heidi.

When I finally gain the courage, I head out of our room. They’re all standing in the kitchen while Dylan tells them the details of the house. The age, the build, and a bunch of other stuff I tune out when Amanda turns around. She’s in denim shorts, a tank, and flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up like she’s ready to work. She’s dressed exactly like I do. Her hair’s in a knot on top of her head and when she smiles at me, her eyes smile too. She places a giant folder on the kitchen table as she makes her way over to me, arms outstretched when she says, “Hi Riley!”

She pulls me into a hug, not too over-affectionate, but not underwhelming either. “It’s good to see Dylan let you out of his grasp long enough to finally meet you.”

Logan’s next to her now, his arms out just like hers were. “’Sup, Riley?” he asks, pulling me in for a hug.

Dylan breaks us apart while Logan and Amanda laugh. “That’s enough of that,” Dylan says, not a hint of humor in his voice.

Just so I’m clear, Jealous Dylan = Hot Dylan.

“Did you want to show me around the place first and then we can go through some ideas?” Amanda asks, stepping up next to me. She waves off the boys as she picks up the folder and the next thing I know we’re talking Scandinavian versus Modern Eclectic and picking out paint samples at the hardware store.

At some point while we’re there, Logan gets a call from Cameron and by the time we get home, all of Dylan’s friends are waiting out front. Apparently they’d all come home for the weekend because they wanted to help us get settled in, and they wanted to see Dylan.

“I brought the food,” Mikayla (Jake’s girlfriend) says, lifting boxes of pizza in her hands.

“I brought the booze,” Lucy adds.

And now we’re having a paint party.

“Do you mind?” Dylan says when he finds me in the bedroom. “It’s just that we don’t get to see each other often and—”

“I don’t mind at all!” I replace my dress with what I normally wear, smiling as I see him watching me from the corner of my eye. I’ll never get sick of his reaction to my body. Never.

We eat first, then end the night painting and dancing and singing to the High School Musical soundtrack. I get to know his friends; they get to know me.

The only rule Mom had when Dylan spoke to her about me moving in was that no alcohol was to be kept in the house. It was a no-brainer for Dylan, and even for me. He once asked if I thought I should go to AA for my drinking problem. He even offered to go the meetings with me, but I didn’t think I needed it. Truth is—Dylan had become what he once offered. He became my alcohol. Only he didn’t just dull my pain—he cured it.

I guess the rule was just Mom’s way of making sure I don’t fall off the edge, and regardless of how I may have acted months ago, I truly appreciate her thinking of it.