New Guy–let’s just call him what he is–The Boyfriend and I have been discussing moving in together for a while now. To put “for a while now” in perspective, we’d probably been dating less than a month in March when he casually said “when you move in” at some point during a conversation. Once the subject had been brought up, there was no going back. The seed of the thought germinated into something bigger and kept growing. The only thing stopping me from moving in at the time was the lack of available space in his house. He has five bedrooms, but of those four were in use by his child and his housemates, and one was being used for storage. I’d need two, one for each of my children, a boy and a girl.

Then in April, one housemate gave notice that he was moving out. On my first visit to the house in May, my boyfriend showed me the now vacant room. I looked around, but said nothing. I wasn’t sure if he was inviting me to take it or not. Seems silly, but we didn’t talk about it much. And therein lies a problem.

Things were a little wonky for a while, as I felt like he was holding the room for me, but heard him joke about renting it out to just about any friend I mentioned who was looking for a place. We had our first “fight” about that. What it really amounted to was him saying “I’ve got a room you could rent” to a visiting friend and me going off to sulk quietly. I didn’t speak to him much for the rest of the evening and much of the next morning, but after sorting things out in my  head, I came to the conclusion that I needed to let him know how I felt about what he had said.

OMG. Communication in a relationship. What a concept. (insert eyeroll)

So we talked. I told him how I felt. He listened. He said “is that all you’re upset about?” and I said yes, it was. “Okay then,” he sighed. “Looks like we should talk about it. Do you want to move into my  house?”

“Yes,” I replied, still feeling somewhat meek and silly about the whole sulky thing.

“Good, because I want you there. I don’t know if we’re moving too fast, too slow, or just right, but I want you living in my house.”

Talking on the phone a few days later, I asked him how much his monthly mortgage payment was, already knowing it was less than my current rent. He told me the amount, and I did a mental calculation… it was exactly the amount of cash I had saved up over the past few months, sitting in an envelope stashed in my dresser.

Last Friday I slipped the envelope into my weekend bag and headed off to his house for the evening. Upstairs in his room that night after dinner, I pulled out a present: a sweatshirt he’d been searching for, a hard to find one from his favorite sports team. I’d been digging around stores for a month to find one after he took me to an opening night baseball game and made me a fan, too. “Where did you find it?” he said, beaming. “I have my sources,” was all I’d say.

He sat on the bed with the sweatshirt on his lap, happy as a clam. I dug a little deeper into my bag, withdrew the cash-stuffed envelope and tossed it onto the bed next to him. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up and opening it.

“My security deposit,” I said, and looked him straight in the eye.

There was barely a pause before he stared right back and smiled. “When do you want to move in?”