Chapter 8: Seven Days of Reckless, Then a Walk
The first time was on the futon. The second time was on the kitchen floor.
By the third day, they had stopped counting, stopped keeping score of surfaces and positions and the number of times one of them said fuck like it was a prayer. The apartment smelled like sweat and sex and the cinnamon gum Maria chewed between rounds. The windows were fogged. The neighbors had started banging on the wall—a rhythmic thud, thud, thud that only made Maria laugh and ride him harder.
"You hear that?" she'd said, her hips rolling, her tits bouncing with every thrust. "They're jealous."
Jordan had grabbed her ass and pulled her down, buried himself so deep she gasped. "Let them be."
---
Seven days.
That was what she'd given him. Seven days to memorize the way her breath hitched when he hit the right spot. Seven days to learn the exact pressure of her teeth on his collarbone. Seven days to fuck her on every square inch of that apartment until the whole place was a goddamn monument to what they had.
Monday was the shower.
He'd woken up before her, slipped out of bed, and turned the water on hot. She'd appeared in the doorway five minutes later, sleep-rumpled and naked, her hair a wild mess around her face.
"Room for one more?" she'd asked.
He'd pulled her in by the wrist. The water pounded against his back as he pressed her against the tile, her legs wrapping around his waist. Steam filled the bathroom. The mirror was useless. He fucked her slow at first, deep, watching her face as the water ran down her cheeks and her mouth fell open.
"Harder," she'd demanded.
He'd obliged.
Her head had thrown back against the tile—crack—and she'd laughed, breathless, telling him she was fine, keep going, don't you fucking stop. He'd fucked her until his legs shook and her nails left crescent moons in his shoulders. When she came, she bit his lip hard enough to draw blood.
He didn't mind.
Tuesday was the kitchen counter.
They'd been making dinner. Or trying to. Maria had been chopping onions, crying and cursing, and Jordan had been standing behind her with his hands on her hips, ostensibly to help her reach the cutting board.
"You're not helping," she'd said.
"I'm helping."
"You're grinding your dick against my ass."
"Exactly. I'm helping."
She'd set the knife down. Turned around. Her eyes were red from the onions and her lips were already parted, and he'd lifted her onto the counter before she could say another word.
The faucet dug into her back. She didn't care. She pulled him in by the belt loops and unzipped his jeans, and then he was inside her, both of them still half-dressed, her skirt bunched around her waist, his shirt still on.
"Fuck," she'd hissed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck—"
He'd covered her mouth with his hand. Not because he wanted her quiet—he didn't, he wanted the whole building to hear—but because he wanted to feel her breath on his palm, wanted to feel the vibration of her moans against his skin.
She'd come twice before he did. The second time, she'd grabbed the edge of the counter so hard her knuckles went white.
Wednesday was the door.
The pizza guy had knocked. Jordan had been buried inside her, her back against the door, her legs wrapped around his waist. The knocking had rattled the wood against her spine.
"Don't—" she'd breathed. "Don't you dare stop."
He hadn't.
The pizza guy had knocked again. Then again. Then given up. They'd heard his footsteps retreat down the hallway, and Maria had laughed so hard she'd almost thrown him off.
"Your dinner," Jordan had said.
"I've got something better."
She'd pulled him back in. The door had rattled on its hinges. He'd pressed his hand over her mouth again—not to keep her quiet, but because the sound of her pleasure was too much, too good, too terrifying. He couldn't think when she was loud. He couldn't breathe.
When she came, she bit his fingers.
Thursday was the floor.
They'd been watching a replay of the Packers-Bears game from 2018. Aaron Rodgers had just thrown a perfect touchdown pass to Davante Adams, and Maria had been yelling at the TV, telling Rodgers he was a goddamn artist, a legend, a beautiful son of a bitch.
Jordan had tackled her off the futon.
She'd shrieked—half-laughing, half-aroused—and then he was on top of her, pressing her into the carpet, his mouth on her neck.
"The game," she'd protested weakly.
"It's a replay."
"It's Rodgers."
"I'm better."
She'd laughed. Then she'd kissed him. Then she'd reached between them and unzipped his jeans.
They'd fucked on the floor for an hour. The carpet burned his knees. Her hair got tangled in the fibers. The game played on behind them, soundless and ignored.
Afterward, she'd lain there, staring at the ceiling, her chest rising and falling.
"I'm going to miss this," she'd said.
He hadn't answered.
Friday was the bed.
They'd never actually used the bed before. Not for sex. It was too ordinary, too domestic, too much like something a couple would do. But on Friday, Maria had pulled him into the bedroom by his shirt collar and pushed him onto the mattress.
"I want to look at you," she'd said.
She'd straddled him. Taken him inside her slow, inch by inch, watching his face the whole time. She'd ridden him with her hands planted on his chest, her hair falling around her shoulders, her eyes never leaving his.
"You're beautiful," he'd said.
"So are you."
"I'm not."
"You are." She'd leaned down and kissed him. "You're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."
He'd come with her name on his lips.
Saturday was the last day.
They'd both known it. There was something different in the air—a weight, a gravity. The apartment felt smaller. The cold outside pressed against the windows like it wanted in.
They'd spent the morning in silence. Maria had made coffee. Jordan had made toast. They'd eaten standing up, leaning against opposite counters, looking at each other across the kitchen.
"What do you want to do today?" he'd asked.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
"Nothing." She'd set her mug down. "I want to stay here. With you. And I don't want to think about tomorrow."
So they'd stayed.
They'd watched the Packers' 2010 Super Bowl run on YouTube. They'd eaten leftover Chinese food straight from the containers. They'd argued about whether Clay Matthews was overrated. They'd made out on the futon like teenagers, hands wandering, breath quickening.
And then, when the sun went down and the apartment fell into shadow, she'd pulled him into the bedroom one last time.
This time, it was slow.
She'd undressed him like she was unwrapping something precious. She'd kissed every inch of his skin—his chest, his stomach, his hips, his thighs. She'd taken him in her mouth and brought him to the edge, then stopped, then started again.
"Tease," he'd breathed.
"Shut up."
She'd crawled up his body and settled over him. She'd lowered herself onto him with a sigh, her eyes fluttering closed, her hands braced on his chest.
"Look at me," he'd said.
She had.
They'd moved together in the dark, slow and deliberate, neither of them in a hurry. The clock on the nightstand ticked. The radiator hummed. Outside, a car passed, its headlights sweeping across the ceiling.
"I love you," she'd whispered.
"I love you too."
She'd come first. He'd watched it happen—the way her breath caught, the way her body tightened, the way her lips parted in a silent cry. Then he'd followed, spilling into her, gripping her hips like she was the only thing keeping him on the planet.
Afterward, she'd lain in his arms.
Neither of them slept.
---
Sunday morning.
Jordan woke before her.
The room was cold. Gray light filtered through the blinds. Maria was curled against him, her face half-buried in the pillow, her breath slow and even.
He watched her for a long time.
The ring was already in his pocket. He'd bought it two days ago—a Tuesday afternoon, while she was in class, while he was supposed to be buying groceries. He'd walked past the jewelry store on Cedar Avenue and stopped.
Just stopped.
Stood there on the sidewalk, staring through the window, his breath fogging the glass.
He'd walked in.
The woman behind the counter had been older, with silver hair and a kind smile. She'd asked if she could help him. He'd opened his mouth and closed it. Opened it again.
"I need a ring," he'd said.
"Engagement?"
"Yeah."
She'd shown him the display case. White gold, yellow gold, platinum. Diamonds. Sapphires. Birthstones. He'd stared at them for twenty minutes, overwhelmed, until one of them caught his eye—simple, elegant, a single diamond on a thin white-gold band. Not too flashy. Not too plain. Perfect.
"How much?" he'd asked.
She'd told him.
It was most of his savings. Almost every penny he'd saved over the past two years, working part-time jobs and hoarding birthday money.
He'd bought it anyway.
Now, lying in bed with Maria's breath on his neck, he could feel it pressing against his thigh. A small weight. A heavy decision.
He slipped out of bed. Pulled on a pair of sweats and a hoodie. Grabbed his coat.
Maria stirred.
"Where you going?" she mumbled, eyes still closed.
"For a walk. Clear my head."
She hummed. "Don't be long."
"I won't."
He kissed her forehead. She smiled, still half-asleep, and rolled over.
He walked six blocks through the Minnesota winter.
The cold was brutal. His breath fogged. His fingers went numb in his gloves. But he didn't feel it. He felt nothing except the ring in his pocket and the pounding of his heart.
He walked past the coffee shop where they'd had their first date. Past the park where they'd spent a summer afternoon arguing about the NFC Championship. Past the campus building where he'd first seen her, standing in line at the cafeteria, wearing a Packers hoodie.
That was the moment.
He remembered it now. Clear as day. She'd been reaching for a bagel, and he'd noticed the hoodie—the green and gold, the faded logo—and he'd said something stupid. Something about Vikings fans. Something flirty.
She'd turned around and looked at him.
And that was it.
That was the moment everything changed.
He walked back to the apartment on autopilot. Up the stairs. Down the hallway. He didn't knock. He didn't hesitate.
He shoved the door open.
Maria was in the kitchen. She'd made coffee. She was standing there in one of his old t-shirts, her hair a mess, her eyes still puffy from sleep.
She turned when the door opened.
"You're back," she said. "That was fast."
He didn't say anything.
He walked toward her. She watched him, confused, her brow furrowed. He reached into his pocket. His fingers closed around the velvet box.
He stopped in the middle of the living room.
Then he dropped to one knee.
Maria's face went blank. The coffee mug stopped halfway to her lips. The room went still—no radiator hum, no traffic noise, no nothing. Just the two of them. Just the beating of his heart.
"Jordan," she whispered.
"I had this whole speech planned," he said. His voice cracked. He swallowed. "I was going to tell you about the first time I saw you. The cafeteria. The hoodie. The bagel. I was going to tell you that I knew right then. Right there. That you were it for me."
Her eyes were filling.
"I was going to tell you about every Sunday. Every game. Every argument about play calls and every time you stole my cheesehead and every goddamn moment I've spent with you in this stupid, perfect apartment."
He opened the box.
The diamond caught the gray light. Sparkled.
"But I can't." He looked up at her. "Because words aren't enough. They're never going to be enough. Not for this. Not for you."
Maria's hand flew to her mouth.
"I'm leaving in two weeks," he said. "I'm going to Green Bay. I'm going to chase the dream I've had since I was six years old. But the thing I realized—the thing I've been too scared to say out loud—is that you're the dream too."
Tears were streaming down her cheeks.
"You're not a dream," he said. "You're real. You're here. And I want you to stay. I want you to come with me. I want to wake up next to you every morning and watch games with you every Sunday and argue about the Packers until we're old and gray and too senile to remember who won the Super Bowl."
He held up the ring.
"Maria," he said. "Will you marry me?"
She stared at him.
The moment stretched.
It went on for a long, terrible, beautiful eternity.
And then she moved.
She crossed the room in two strides. She grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet. Before he could say another word, she kissed him—hard, fierce, desperate, the kind of kiss that was meant to bruise.
When she finally pulled back, her cheeks were wet and her eyes were wild.
"Yes," she breathed. "Yes, you absolute fucking idiot. Yes."
Jordan's hands were shaking so badly he almost dropped the ring. She held out her hand, and he slid it onto her finger—third try, first two were fumbled, but he got it on.
They both looked at it.
The diamond glittered.
"Oh my god," Maria said. "Oh my god."
Then she laughed. It was wet and real and a little unhinged.
"We're engaged," she said.
"Yeah."
"I said yes."
"Yeah."
"I said yes to a twenty-year-old college student with a cheesehead and no savings."
"You did."
"I'm insane."
"You are."
She kissed him again. And again. And again.
Then she pulled back and looked at him with those warm brown eyes, and he saw it—the fear, the joy, the hope, the terror of it all. The future, stretching out ahead of them, impossible and terrifying and absolutely, completely right.
"Green Bay," she said.
"Green Bay."
"We're moving to Green Bay."
"We are."
She laughed. And this time, it was bright and clear and full of light.
"Fuck," she said. "We're really doing this."
"Yeah." Jordan grinned. "We really are."
She kissed him again. Then she took his hand and led him toward the bedroom.
"Come on," she said. "We've got a wedding to plan."
"Do we have to plan it right now?"
"No." She glanced back at him over her shoulder. "Right now, I want to celebrate."
They made it as far as the doorway.
Then she pushed him against the frame and dropped to her knees.
"Maria—"
"Shut up," she said. "You just proposed. Let me say thank you."
She pulled his sweats down. Took him in her mouth. Jordan's head thudded against the doorframe. He grabbed the molding, held on, watched her lips slide up and down his shaft.
"Fuck," he breathed. "Fuck, Maria."
She hummed. The vibration rippled through him.
He let her work. Let her tease. Let her bring him to the edge and back, over and over, until his legs were shaking and his breath was coming in short, ragged gasps.
When he finally came, she swallowed every drop.
Then she stood up and kissed him, and he tasted himself on her tongue.
"Celebration," she said. "Round one."
Jordan pulled her into the bedroom.
He had her against the wall before they cleared the threshold, her back flat against the cheap drywall, his mouth on her throat. She clawed at his hoodie, yanking it over his head, then went for his sweats. They tangled around his ankles. He kicked them off, nearly ate shit on the carpet, and she laughed—that bright, unhinged laugh he'd heard a thousand times but never like this.
"Graceful," she said.
"Shut up."
He kissed her. She bit his lip. He tasted copper and didn't care.
Her shirt—his shirt, the old Packers one with the fading logo—came off in one pull. No bra underneath. He palmed her tits, thumbed her nipples until they went hard, then ducked his head and sucked one into his mouth. She hissed through her teeth and arched her back, pressing herself deeper into him.
"Fuck," she breathed. "You and your mouth."
"You love my mouth."
"I love your dick more."
He laughed against her skin. Then he dropped to his knees.
Her leggings came down with one rough pull. No underwear. He looked up at her—her face flushed, her chest heaving, her fingers already tangled in his hair—and then he pressed his mouth to her cunt.
She cried out. Not loud, but sharp and sudden. He licked up the length of her slit, slow and deliberate, then circled her clit with his tongue. Her hips bucked. He grabbed her thighs and held her in place.
"Jordan—"
He didn't answer. Just worked her over—licking, sucking, sliding two fingers inside her while his tongue kept moving. Her taste flooded his mouth. Tangy and warm. He could feel her walls clenching around his fingers.
She came on his face with a broken moan.
He stood up, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and kissed her. She licked herself off his lips.
"Bed," she said. "Now."
They fell onto the mattress in a tangle of limbs. Maria landed on top, straddling his hips, her wet cunt pressed against his stomach. She reached down and wrapped her fingers around his cock—hard, aching, leaking—and stroked him once, twice, three times.
"Inside me," she said. "I want you inside me."
She guided him to her entrance.
He grabbed her hips. "You sure?"
She answered by sinking down on him.
No condom. No barrier. Just her tight, wet heat swallowing every inch of him. He gritted his teeth. She threw her head back. For a second, neither of them moved—just breathed—adjusting to the feeling.
Then she started to ride him.
Slow at first. Deliberate. Her hands planted on his chest, her hips rolling, grinding her clit against his pelvis with every stroke. He watched her tits bounce, watched her stomach muscles flex, watched the ring on her finger catch the dim light.
Fuck. The ring.
She was wearing his ring.
She leaned forward, changing the angle, and he hit something deep inside her. Her breath hitched. She did it again. And again.
"Right there," she gasped. "Don't you fucking stop."
He grabbed her ass and helped her move. Faster now. Harder. The headboard banged against the wall—thud, thud, thud—and neither of them cared about the neighbors.
He flipped her over.
She landed on her back with a grunt. He hooked her legs over his shoulders and drove into her. Deep. Brutal. Her nails raked down his forearms, leaving red trails.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The bed creaked. The mattress squeaked. Sweat dripped from his forehead onto her chest. She reached up and grabbed his face, pulling him down for a kiss—messy, frantic, more teeth than tongue.
"You're going to come for me," he said against her mouth.
"Yes—"
"Say it."
"I'm going to come—"
"Say my name."
"Jordan—"
He fucked her through it. She screamed—actually screamed—her whole body locking up, her cunt gripping his cock like a vise. He kept going, riding her through the aftershocks, chasing his own release.
"Come inside me," she breathed. "I want it. Fucking do it."
That was all it took.
He buried himself to the hilt and came with a guttural groan, spilling into her in hot, pulsing waves. His arms gave out. He collapsed on top of her, gasping, sweating, completely wrecked.
She stroked his hair.
"Hi, fiancé," she said.
He laughed. A breathless, disbelieving sound.
"Hi, fiancée."
---
They stayed in bed for an hour. Maybe two. The sun tracked across the ceiling, and the cold outside pressed against the windows, and neither of them moved except to adjust positions—her head on his chest, his arm around her waist, legs tangled under the blanket.
Maria held up her hand and stared at the ring for the hundredth time.
"I can't believe you bought this," she said.
"I can't believe you said yes."
"I can't believe I'm moving to Wisconsin."
"You're not moving to Wisconsin. You're moving to Green Bay. There's a difference."
She snorted. "Is there?"
"Green Bay has Lambeau. Wisconsin has... cheese."
"I like cheese."
"You're marrying me for my cheesehead."
"I'm marrying you for your dick." She kissed his chest. "The cheesehead is a bonus."
He laughed. Then he went quiet. The weight of the ring, the weight of the decision, settled over him like a second blanket.
"I don't have a place for us to live," he said.
Maria propped herself up on her elbow. "What?"
"In Green Bay. I don't have an apartment. I was going to figure it out when I got there—couch surf, find a sublet—but that was before..."
"Before you proposed."
"Yeah."
She was quiet for a moment. Then she smirked.
"Well," she said. "I guess we'll figure it out together."
---
The email came on Tuesday.
Jordan was sitting at the kitchen table, scrolling through job listings for Maria in the Green Bay area—graphic design positions, marketing firms, anything that might work—when his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen. Packers front office. His heart kicked.
He opened it.
Subject: Welcome to the Team
Dear Jordan,
On behalf of the Green Bay Packers organization, congratulations on your acceptance of the Digital Content Associate position. We are thrilled to welcome you to the family.
He skimmed ahead. Orientation dates. Paperwork. HR contacts. And then, near the bottom, a paragraph that made him stop breathing.
As part of our commitment to supporting new team members relocating to the Green Bay area, we are pleased to offer a relocation and housing stipend of $15,000, to be disbursed upon your start date. This bonus is intended to assist with housing costs, moving expenses, or other relocation needs. Please contact HR if you have any questions.
He read it again. And again.
Fifteen thousand dollars.
"Holy shit."
Maria's voice came from the bedroom. "What?"
"Maria. Get out here."
She appeared in the doorway, toothbrush in her mouth, wearing nothing but his old t-shirt. "What's going on?"
He held up the phone.
She read it. The toothbrush fell out of her mouth.
"Fifteen thousand dollars," she said.
"Yeah."
"For a house."
"For housing. For moving. For—"
"Jordan." She grabbed his arm. "That's a down payment."
He stared at her.
"We could buy a house," she said. "An actual house. Not an apartment. Not a rental. A house."
"In Green Bay."
"In Green Bay."
His hands were shaking. He set the phone down. Then he grabbed her and pulled her into his lap, and she was laughing and crying at the same time, and he was pretty sure he was doing the same thing.
"We need to look at listings," she said. "Right now. Get the laptop."
He got the laptop.
---
They sat on the futon, side by side, the screen glowing in the dim apartment. Maria pulled up Zillow. Jordan typed "Green Bay, WI" into the search bar and hit enter.
The map filled with little green squares. Houses. Condos. Duplexes. A whole city's worth of possibilities.
"Holy shit," Maria breathed. "There's so many."
"We can't afford all of them."
"We can afford some of them." She clicked on a filter. "Price. Under two hundred thousand."
The map refreshed. Still plenty of options.
"Okay," she said. "First one. Three-bedroom ranch. Built in 1962. Needs some work."
"Define 'some work.'"
She clicked the listing. The photos loaded—wood paneling, shag carpet, a kitchen that hadn't been updated since the Carter administration.
"That's a lot of work," Jordan said.
"But look at the yard." She pointed at the screen. "That's a big yard."
"We're not getting a house for the yard."
"Why not?"
"Because we're not going to be spending all our time in the yard."
She elbowed him. "You're no fun."
They kept scrolling.
The second one was a duplex. Too small. The third was a split-level with a finished basement. Maria loved it. Jordan pointed out that it backed up to a highway.
"What's wrong with a highway?"
"Nothing. If you like the sound of trucks at 3 a.m."
"I like trucks."
"You're lying."
"I'm not lying. I'm compromising."
They scrolled past a house with a sagging roof. Past a condo with a $300 monthly HOA fee. Past a fixer-upper that Maria called "charming" and Jordan called "a money pit."
Then they found it.
A bungalow on the east side of Green Bay. Two bedrooms. One bath. Built in 1948. Hardwood floors. A brick fireplace. A covered porch. And best of all—a detached garage.
"That's it," Maria said.
"We haven't even looked at the photos."
"I don't need to. That's it."
Jordan clicked through the gallery. The kitchen was small but updated—white cabinets, butcher-block counters, a gas stove. The bathroom had a clawfoot tub. The bedrooms were modest but bright.
"This is actually perfect," he said.
"I know."
"And it's in our budget."
"I know."
"We could put down roots here."
Maria went quiet.
He looked at her. She was staring at the screen, but her eyes were somewhere else.
"What?" he said.
"Nothing."
"Maria."
"It's just—" She bit her lip. "We're twenty years old. We're looking at houses. On Zillow. Like actual adults."
"Yeah."
"Doesn't that scare you?"
He thought about it.
"Everything about this scares me," he said. "The job. The move. The ring. You. But scared isn't the same as wrong."
She turned to look at him.
"When did you get so good at words?"
"I majored in journalism."
She laughed. But her eyes were wet.
"We could put an offer in," she said. "If we like it. If we see it in person."
"We can't afford to fly out."
"Then we'll call a realtor. Do a virtual tour." She wiped her eyes. "People do it all the time."
He looked at the bungalow. The porch. The yard. The fireplace.
"Okay," he said. "Let's do it."
She kissed him. Soft. Slow. The kind of kiss that wasn't about anything except staying close.
Then she pulled back and smirked.
"Round two?" she said.
"On the futon?"
"On the futon."
She pushed him back against the cushions.
---
The realtor called on Thursday.
Her name was Brenda. She had a voice like a country radio DJ and a distinct tendency to say everything with three exclamation points. Maria handled the call. Jordan listened from the kitchen, nursing a cup of coffee, watching her pace the living room like a caged animal.
"Yes, the bungalow on Pulaski Street. Uh-huh. Yes. No, we haven't seen it in person. We're in Minnesota. We're relocating."
Pause.
"We're getting married. My fiancé got a job. With the Packers."
Pause.
"Yes. The Packers. I know. I know. Yes. We're very excited. But we need a place to live."
Pause.
"Saturday? That works. Perfect. Can you do a video tour? Like FaceTime?"
Pause.
"You're amazing, Brenda. Thank you. Thank you so much."
She hung up and turned to Jordan.
"Saturday. Ten a.m. She'll be at the bungalow. She's going to walk us through it on FaceTime."
He smiled. "We're really doing this."
"We're really doing this."
She crossed the room and wrapped her arms around his neck.
"You're going to be a homeowner," she said.
"We're going to be homeowners."
"We're going to be homeowners." She kissed the corner of his mouth. "And married. And in Green Bay. And probably completely broke."
"Probably."
"I wouldn't have it any other way."
He pulled her close. The coffee went cold on the counter. The Packers flag hung above the TV, crooked and proud. Outside, the Minnesota winter howled against the windows.
Inside, they held each other.
They had a wedding to plan.
They had a house to buy.
They had a future waiting.
And for the first time in his life, Jordan Mitchell wasn't scared of any of it.
He was ready.
---
Saturday morning came fast.
They set up the laptop on the coffee table. Maria wore the ring on a chain around her neck—she'd been too afraid of losing it while cleaning the apartment—and kept touching it, like she needed to remind herself that it was real. Jordan sat next to her, knee bouncing, coffee untouched.
Brenda FaceTimed at exactly ten o'clock.
"Good morning!" Her voice was sunny. Perky. Obnoxiously cheerful for a Saturday. "Are you ready to see your potential new home?"
"Yes," Maria said. "So ready."
Brenda walked them through the front door.
The living room was smaller than the photos suggested. But warm. The hardwood floors gleamed under the overhead light. The fireplace was brick, painted white, with a mantle that Maria immediately declared "perfect for stockings at Christmas."
The kitchen had the butcher-block counters. The gas stove. A window over the sink that looked out onto the backyard.
"Fuck," Maria whispered. "It's even better in person."
"Virtual person," Jordan corrected.
"Shut up."
They saw the bedrooms. The clawfoot tub. The hallway linen closet. The garage—more than enough space for his car.
Then Brenda took them outside.
The porch was covered, with room for two chairs and a small table. The yard was fenced. There was a maple tree in the corner, bare-branched for winter, but Maria said she could already imagine it in the fall—red and orange, leaves everywhere.
"Jordan," she said.
"Yeah."
"I want this house."
"Yeah."
"Are we really doing this?"
"Yeah."
She turned to him. Her eyes were bright. Her smile was wide. She looked like a kid on Christmas morning—like every good thing in the world had just been laid out in front of her.
"We're buying a house," she said.
"We're buying a house."
Brenda's voice crackled from the laptop. "So, what do you think?"
Maria leaned toward the screen.
"We'll take it," she said.
Jordan choked on his coffee.
"Are you serious?" he said.
She looked at him. "Are you?"
He thought about the bungalow. The porch. The fireplace. The maple tree. The life he could see laid out in every room, in every corner, in every detail he hadn't noticed yet.
"Yeah," he said. "I'm serious."
Maria screamed.
Brenda laughed.
And somewhere in Green Bay, Wisconsin, a little bungalow on Pulaski Street waited for its new owners.
---
They celebrated by christening the futon one last time.
Maria rode him slow while the video from the realtor played in the background—Brenda's voice still chirping about square footage and property taxes. He whispered her name. She grabbed his face and kissed him like she was sealing a deal.
When they finished, they lay tangled together, breathless and laughing, the ring resting against her collarbone.
"We're going to be okay," she said.
"I know."
"I mean it. We're going to figure it out. The move. The house. The wedding. All of it."
"We already are."
She smiled. Then she kissed him.
And the two of them, twenty years old and broke and recklessly stupid, lay in each other's arms and started planning the rest of their lives.