She wrinkles her nose. “As long as it’s not Kane-Mercer.”
“You’ve made your thoughts quite clear on that name,” I tease her. During the legal proceedings where we sorted out all of Max’s documentation, we’d debated on whether or not to change his last name.
“Kane-Mercer sounds like a serial killer,” she says.
That had been her argument then as well.
“I still think Max Mercer sounds like a comic book hero,” I point out.
“Then it’s just perfect for him.”
I have no argument there. Max is my miracle. His kindness and love have granted me more joy than I thought possible in this lifetime.
But she’s not going to distract me from the Kane-Mercer debate. “We’ll talk about this later,” I warn her.
She knows it’s a threat, but she merely raises her eyebrow as if to accept the challenge. I kiss the smirk off her face and reclaim the box I abandoned near the foot of the stairs marked Max.
He’s sitting on his bed drawing a picture. I peek over his shoulder to spot three stick figures and a smaller shape I can’t quite make out. Dropping on the bed beside him, I wait for him to stop drawing and look to me. “Who are you drawing, little man?” I ask him, signing along as I speak.
The cochlear implants he received two years ago have been an adjustment for all of us. We’re lucky that his mom put so much effort into learning sign language, which encouraged me to do the same. Being able to communicate with him through a language he understands is slowly helping him to attach the sounds of our words with the shape of our lips and the words we sign.
It’s been an uphill battle, but seeing how much progress he’s already made makes it all worth it.
“Our family,” Max signs as a few accompanying consonants trip over his tongue.
“I like it, but what’s that?” I point to the shape in the lower corner of the page.
“Our dog,” he signs back with a grin.
“We don’t have a dog.”
“Not yet,” he replies.
I guess I know exactly what he’s planning to ask for this Christmas. I’ll have to run this gift request by his mom. Although, I can’t imagine a more perfect addition to this chapter of our lives, except for maybe one thing.
“I’m going to keep working,” I tell Max. “Do you have your outfit ready for dinner?”
He jumps up and runs over to his closet. His is the only room in the house that we’ve really unpacked. We had been worried about making his transition as smooth as possible, but there have been no issues so far. He’s as eager as I am to have our family all under one roof.
Max pulls out his dress shirt and clip-on tie, holding it up for me.
“Good man,” I call.
He drops it on the floor and runs to tackle me. I catch him, swinging him into a bear hug, then I pull back, “You better hang that up.”
He does as he’s told, and I make my way downstairs to catch Grace struggling with a box on the porch steps. I take it from her, checking its label and haul it into the kitchen.
“What next?” I ask her as soon as I put it on the counter.
Amie designed the space. It was the one room that baffled Grace and me. Cream colored subway tiles accent the walls and black cabinetry. Something about the cozy design and farmhouse sink allow it to feel like the center of our home. Of course, the massive Viking stove Amie picked out will probably get better use when she comes to visit.
“I can carry things myself,” Grace says, planting her hands on her hips.
I’m glad that a couple of years of being together has in no way diminished her obstinate streak.
“I don’t want you to get hurt, Sunshine.”
She rolls her eyes. “Then this will take all day.”
The truth is I just want to do this with her. I want to carry the boxes from room to room, unfolding my life with her by my side.
“I have some stuff for the bedroom,” she finally says.
I follow her out to the moving trucks enjoying the slight crispness of spring air on my sweaty skin. Grabbing our headboard, I lift it over my head. Grace races to the door to hold it open. It takes a bit of an effort to get it up the winding staircase, but eventually it’s in our room.
“Where do you want it?” I ask her.
She gazes around the perimeter, her eyes hooding suggestively. “Everywhere.”
I lean it against the wall as she saunters to me. Grabbing the hem of her shirt, I tug her closer.
“Keep talking like that,” I say, “and we never will finish. Don’t you want a bed in here?”
“We have a wall,” she points out, “and floors and a shower.”
I don’t need her to give me an inventory of all the places we’re going to have to christen over the next few weeks. “We might have a shower, but we don’t have any towels, Sunshine.”