John glanced over at the wobbly pile of old books on his side of the bed, nudged his alarm clock over to a slightly less precarious position on the top book. “I have to admit I’m looking forward to an actual bedside table again. With a lamp.” The only light in the room was a gooseneck floor lamp that turned on with the switch just inside the door. Which meant that somebody had to walk over to turn it off again and then roam blindly back to bed. My shins throbbed just thinking about it.

I let out another sigh. “It’s not that I can’t wait for our fancy-schmancy new master suite, but it’s still bittersweet. Half my childhood was spent in one half of this room, pretending that my sister Christine wasn’t in the other half.”

John sniffed dramatically. “Smells like teen spirit.”

“Ha. More like teen angst. I’ve blocked out most of it, but I can still vaguely remember years and years of anxiety, sort of a chronic, generalized dread that every time I moved a muscle I was going to screw things up. Wrong hair, wrong outfit. The something stupid that would come out of my mouth every time I talked to a boy.”

John shrugged. “I still feel that way sometimes.”

“Aww,” I said. “I think you do great when you talk to boys.”

“Cute.” John laced the fingers of one hand through mine. “Did you know,” he said, “that the phrase ‘smells like teen spirit’ was scrawled on the wall of Kurt Cobain’s apartment by a friend of his then-girlfriend, because apparently his girlfriend was a big fan of Teen Spirit deodorant?”

“Gee, what don’t you know?” I said.

“I went through a brief phase of wanting to be a rock historian. Before I tried making a living building wooden boats and refinishing vintage pinball machines, and ultimately made the fiscally responsible choice to become an accountant again.”

“I used to wear Teen Spirit deodorant. Teen Spirit Pink Crush. It made me smell like baby powder and berries, at least I hoped it did.”

“Right Guard all the way,” John said. “My mother bought the big economy aerosol spray can of Right Guard Super Dry Antiperspirant and left it in the upstairs bathroom for all of us to use.” He made his voice sound like the old commercial. “If you’re still getting wet, start getting tough.”

“Ohmigod,” I said. “I thought it was bad enough that I had to share with my sisters. I can’t believe you had to share your deodorant with your whole family. That’s the saddest story I’ve ever heard.”

“It’s okay,” John said in the most pathetic little voice he could muster. “She sends me my own can for Christmas now.”