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it’s done. One of your best.”
    “If I ever finish it.”
    “Why aren’t you working on it in Cambridge?”
    “I like being here,” he said with a wink.
    “Then why’d you call it ‘
her home
’?” I asked.
    He turned his eyes away from the book and looked at me. “What?”
    “The other night when you yelled at Janine for snapping at me. You said, ‘This is
her
home.’ It’s yours too, you know.”
    “I suppose you like to think of it that way, but the truth is, it’s not. My name’s not on the title.”
    I frowned. “That’s just a technicality, isn’t it?”
    “It’s a pretty big technicality, don’t you think? Look, it’s not something I resent—”
    I interrupted him. “You could’ve fooled me just now.…”
    “I know what this house means to you. It’s yours and Sam’s. That’s just the way it is, and it’s OK with me.”
    “You sure?” I asked.
    “It’s fine,” he said, and went back to reading.
    Despite my initial reluctance, David had persuaded me that we’d be happier living together in Northampton than Cambridge. The Cambridge place, for all its luxuries and comforts, didn’t have the warmth or charm of the Northampton house, to say nothing of the commute to and from NU, especially during the winter months. I’d worried about how it would feel to have David living in what had been Sam’s space—he’d owned the house years before we’d met—worried that David would somehow “replace” Sam as if he’d never been there. But David had told me it was important to honor Sam’s presence at all times. A framed photograph of Sam lived in almost every room. And David never seemed to mind if I told stories about Sam; if anything, he encouraged them. In a strange way, Sam was a part of our relationship that was neither intrusive nor threatening. He was neither a third wheel nor a wedge, and I sensed that Sam somehow approved of my being with David.
    But at that moment the house being in my name only was no longer OK with me.
    Lost in thought and still staring at the canvas, I heard myself speak. “Hey, Dev?”
    “Yes?”
    I took my gaze away from the painting and directed it at him. “Will you teach me to paint?”
    He looked up from his book and peeked over his reading glasses.
    “Say that again?”
    “I think I’d like to learn how to paint.”
    He closed the book and rested it on his lap, crossed his arms, and gave me a coy look. I crossed my arms as if to returna mirror image of him, knowing exactly what he was thinking:
Déjà vu all over again.
    “Why do you wanna learn how to paint?” He said this in a teasing voice, as if reenacting a scene from long ago. Hell, why couldn’t he ever make things easy for me?
    “I don’t know,” I said. “You make it look so simple, not to mention enjoyable.”
    He stood up, leaving his book on the chair, and padded to the easel. “It’s not, you know.”
    “Not what?”
    “Easy. Or even enjoyable, sometimes. Just like writing.”
    I frowned. “Still, I think I’d like to learn.”
    “What kind of painting would you want to do? Still life? Landscapes? Portraits? Abstract? Cubist? Impressionist? Do you wanna use oils? Acrylics? Watercolor?”
    “I’ll concede to your best judgment,” I said, practically bowing to him, disciple to master.
    He looked at the easel, then at me, as if he were deep in thought—arms crossed again. “Hmmmm…”
    I rolled my eyes.
    “We’ll start you on acrylics and still lifes,” he said. “But I want a full commitment from you. No cacking out after two lessons.”
    “When have I ever not given you a full commitment?” I wanted to retract the words just as quickly as they rolled out of my mouth. He cocked an eyebrow. “Fine, Rembrandt,” I said. “Shall we draw up a contract?”
    He glared at me, and I feared I’d just crossed a line. David and I almost never talked about our original arrangement, the one that had brought us together aeons ago, prior to my meeting