Free Stepdog by Nicole Galland

?”
    â€œI said we can move in somewhere new together if that helps. As long as it’s dog-friendly.”
    â€œIt doesn’t help, and besides—the dog decides where we live?” I said. “It’s all about the dog.”
    â€œActually, it’s all about the green card,” she replied without looking up from the form. “They want to know if you’re a communist,” she said, reading. “Or a Nazi.”
    â€œDon’t change the subject, please. This isn’t going to work if you keep making me feel like I’m beholden to you,” I warned.
    â€œI’m not doing that,” she said.
    â€œYou are.”
    â€œI’m not.”
    â€œYou are .”
    â€œI’m not .”
    â€œYou—” I grabbed a couch cushion, slammed it to my face, andbriefly screamed into it with the frustration. God, that felt better. I lowered the cushion. “You are,” I said calmly.
    â€œI’m not. But I’m not willing to give up my dog so you can get a green card.”
    â€œYou should have thought of that before insisting that I marry you,” I said.
    â€œYou should have thought of that before marrying a woman with a dog,” she retorted.
    I moved in with her.
    No, let’s be clear about this:
    I moved in with them .

Chapter 5
    I sublet my place (month to month). We told all our friends that we were shacking up together; my mates were shocked and stunned, to say the least, knowing me for being single so long, and going on about having my own place—and then moving in with her so fast. Her friends were “concerned but supportive,” she reported. Her last live-in relationship had been pretty awful. The museum crowd had seen her through it and now they were all—especially Lena—protective, and so they were a little anxious that it was happening so quickly. (Although for the record, Lena generally liked me, considering me the opposite of the evil ex—she referred to me as “the anti-Jonathan.” “That must mean Jonathan has a very small cock,” I said, to which Lena replied that that wasn’t a very funny joke for me to share with anyone but Sara. Prude.)
    Danny lent me his truck to drop off boxes, instruments, and a large suitcase.
    And then there I was, moved in with her.
    And it was, of course, awkward and weird and yet secretly exciting in its way, because I loved being around her. I digitalized all my music and brought it with me on my iPod, which made mefeel very twenty-first-century despite my established history as a Luddite. I kept reminding myself that this was only temporary, for a greater cause, and that we would weather it as friends. And because we were so damn crazy about each other. Who knew, maybe someday we’d think about doing this for real?
    Maybe. Probably not, though. Everyone knows romance lasts longer if you don’t live together.
    Meanwhile, I became preoccupied with earning my keep. I paid for a cleaner to come weekly, after it was made clear that I did not keep the bathroom as neat as I imagined myself keeping it. I pretended to be Colin Farrell on her answering machine. I cooked meals for her, and I gave her foot massages and caressed her in bed. I serenaded her.
    And I promised her I would not scratch the very nice paint job in her apartment when I eventually started climbing the walls.
    The thing about out-of-work actors and musicians is that, besides being out of work, we can’t go job-hunting like normal people do. Between my expired visa and the government checking me out, I wasn’t supposed to be working at all . I taped an audition for Dougie to send to the producers, to get the ball rolling should the Irish-detective-rock-star series get off the ground. That was exciting, got me downtown to the offices of Boston’s best casting director, but took less than an afternoon. Meanwhile I had to turn down Timon of Athens, not that I was so excited about it,