theft unit to see if they could tell him who could authenticate the page."
"Right. And that will be someone at the university, I'd think."
"Most likely. I talked to our special collections guy today. He’d love to take a look at the paper."
We sat down to dinner and had just finished eating when Kevin’s phone rang. He looked at the display. “Uh oh. It’s Tim.” He answered and spoke with his partner for a minute, then clicked off. “Sorry, but we’ve got a body off Mandeville Canyon Road. I’ve gotta go.”
Kevin left. W e stayed to help Abby clean up, then Pete drove us home. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom/office and dropped my computer bag beside "my" desk, then stood and looked at the room. Almost nothing in it was mine. The fire in my apartment back in June had burned all my books, and I had only begun to start replacing them. I'd bought new clothes, but I still didn't have as much as I'd had before the fire. I’d bought towels. Everything else here was Pete's.
It was a weird feeling.
As I was standing there, Pete came into the room behind me. "What are you doing?"
"Just looking around . Thinking about stuff. All that stuff that Jennifer had, and the fact that I own almost nothing."
"So, you're not an acquisitive kind of guy. You haven't fallen for the consumerist culture's brainwashing. That's a good thing."
I laughed. "Yeah, I guess. It's just weird to realize that almost nothing here is mine."
He frowned. "Does that bother you?"
"No, not really. I mean, obviously, it's your house, I've only been here four and a half months and I came here with nothing, of course everything is going to be yours. I guess it's just this thing with Jennifer and all her stuff...it's made me realize how little I have."
Pete was quiet for a minute. Then, softly, "You don't feel like this is your home."
I looked at him sharply. "Yes, this is my home. Where else would it be?"
"Sure, it's your physical home. It's where you live right now. But you don't feel like it's yours. You don't feel any ownership of it."
"Well...no. I don't. You own it. I live with you, in your house. If anything happened and we ever broke up, you'd stay here because it's your house. Your Uncle Arthur left it to you." I shrugged. "It's not how I feel, it's just a fact."
Pete didn't say anything for a minute, but he looked upset. Then he sighed. “Do you have work to do? I’ve got papers to grade.”
" Yeah, I have some articles to find. No TV tonight."
“Okay, good.” Pete turned to leave and I laid my hand on his arm. "Hey. It doesn't bother me. Really."
"Okay." He smiled, but it was a weak effort.
When I finished the work I needed to do, Pete was still grading. I went downstairs and put in a load of laundry, straightened and dusted the living room, packed our lunches for the following day, checked the doors and windows, and went back upstairs. I stuck my head in the office; Pete seemed to still be trapped in the throes of undergraduate psychology papers.
"Hey. I'm gonna take a shower." I thought he might offer to join me.
But he didn't. "Okay. I'm not at a good stopping point."
"Okay." I shrugged inwardly.
In the shower, I thought about our earlier conversation. Did I think of this as my home? Well, sure, on one level. When I said to Liz in the evening s, "I'm heading home," this is where I meant I was coming. But, I had to admit...if we were playing a word association game, and someone said "Home" to me, my first thought would be "Oceanside." And wasn’t that sorry, that I still thought of my dad's house as "home." I was 32 years old. I should have moved beyond that.
But apparently I hadn't.
I got out of the shower, put on pajama pants and a t-shirt, and went to check the laundry. The washer was done, so I started the dryer and went back upstairs. Pete was in the process of closing down his computer. I was barefoot, so he didn’t hear me coming. I went up to the desk where he was sitting and wrapped my arms around his
"Right. And that will be someone at the university, I'd think."
"Most likely. I talked to our special collections guy today. He’d love to take a look at the paper."
We sat down to dinner and had just finished eating when Kevin’s phone rang. He looked at the display. “Uh oh. It’s Tim.” He answered and spoke with his partner for a minute, then clicked off. “Sorry, but we’ve got a body off Mandeville Canyon Road. I’ve gotta go.”
Kevin left. W e stayed to help Abby clean up, then Pete drove us home. I went upstairs to the spare bedroom/office and dropped my computer bag beside "my" desk, then stood and looked at the room. Almost nothing in it was mine. The fire in my apartment back in June had burned all my books, and I had only begun to start replacing them. I'd bought new clothes, but I still didn't have as much as I'd had before the fire. I’d bought towels. Everything else here was Pete's.
It was a weird feeling.
As I was standing there, Pete came into the room behind me. "What are you doing?"
"Just looking around . Thinking about stuff. All that stuff that Jennifer had, and the fact that I own almost nothing."
"So, you're not an acquisitive kind of guy. You haven't fallen for the consumerist culture's brainwashing. That's a good thing."
I laughed. "Yeah, I guess. It's just weird to realize that almost nothing here is mine."
He frowned. "Does that bother you?"
"No, not really. I mean, obviously, it's your house, I've only been here four and a half months and I came here with nothing, of course everything is going to be yours. I guess it's just this thing with Jennifer and all her stuff...it's made me realize how little I have."
Pete was quiet for a minute. Then, softly, "You don't feel like this is your home."
I looked at him sharply. "Yes, this is my home. Where else would it be?"
"Sure, it's your physical home. It's where you live right now. But you don't feel like it's yours. You don't feel any ownership of it."
"Well...no. I don't. You own it. I live with you, in your house. If anything happened and we ever broke up, you'd stay here because it's your house. Your Uncle Arthur left it to you." I shrugged. "It's not how I feel, it's just a fact."
Pete didn't say anything for a minute, but he looked upset. Then he sighed. “Do you have work to do? I’ve got papers to grade.”
" Yeah, I have some articles to find. No TV tonight."
“Okay, good.” Pete turned to leave and I laid my hand on his arm. "Hey. It doesn't bother me. Really."
"Okay." He smiled, but it was a weak effort.
When I finished the work I needed to do, Pete was still grading. I went downstairs and put in a load of laundry, straightened and dusted the living room, packed our lunches for the following day, checked the doors and windows, and went back upstairs. I stuck my head in the office; Pete seemed to still be trapped in the throes of undergraduate psychology papers.
"Hey. I'm gonna take a shower." I thought he might offer to join me.
But he didn't. "Okay. I'm not at a good stopping point."
"Okay." I shrugged inwardly.
In the shower, I thought about our earlier conversation. Did I think of this as my home? Well, sure, on one level. When I said to Liz in the evening s, "I'm heading home," this is where I meant I was coming. But, I had to admit...if we were playing a word association game, and someone said "Home" to me, my first thought would be "Oceanside." And wasn’t that sorry, that I still thought of my dad's house as "home." I was 32 years old. I should have moved beyond that.
But apparently I hadn't.
I got out of the shower, put on pajama pants and a t-shirt, and went to check the laundry. The washer was done, so I started the dryer and went back upstairs. Pete was in the process of closing down his computer. I was barefoot, so he didn’t hear me coming. I went up to the desk where he was sitting and wrapped my arms around his
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