Page 27 of Roommate
“Honey!” my mother gasps. “What brought this on?”
Just everything. “I’ve been saving up,” I say. “And this will make my Busy Bean commute a whole lot easier.”
Kyle shoves another bite of food in his mouth, glowering.
He won’t stay mad, I remind myself. And he doesn’t pay attention, so he doesn’t realize how unhappy I’ve been.
“Waste of money,” my father mutters.
“No, it isn’t,” I say. “I’ve been meaning to get my own place for a while, now. Zara’s tenant fell through on the place she rents out, and she made me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”
“A house? You don’t have furniture,” my mother points out.
“That’s true,” I admit. “But everyone starts somewhere.”
“You can take your bedroom furniture,” Mom offers.
“Like hell,” my father says. “What if we have a guest?”
The rest of us stare. Nobody can even remember the last time we had a guest. My mother’s sister comes once a year and stays in a motel.
“Don’t worry about it. I have money,” I say. I don’t want my old twin bed anyway. I want to start fresh.
Kyle avoids my eyes.
I finish my dinner in a few quick bites. “I’d better get my clothes together. Thanks for dinner, Mom. Excuse me.”
“You can borrow my big suitcase,” she offers.
“Thanks.”
Fifteen minutes later I’m sliding that suitcase into the back of my truck. I have barely anything to move into a house. Clothes and toiletries. A box of my favorite books. Art supplies. My sleeping bag and camping mattress.
My mother comes outside carrying a very ugly lamp. I assume she’s dug it out of the cellar, because it’s only vaguely familiar.
“Thanks.”
“I don’t want you sitting in the dark.” She chews her lip.
“I’ll be fine. Hey, Mom? Could I take my desk? From my room?”
“That old thing? You go ahead. Kyle!” she shouts, and I spot my brother slinking off toward Dad’s truck.
“Kyle! Help Kieran with the desk.”
My brother is silent as he follows me one more time up the little staircase to our rooms. He waits while I remove a few things from the desktop, and then grasps one end of it. But then he lets go and stands tall again. “Why are you doing this?” he asks suddenly. “This is ridiculous.”
Of course he thinks so. Because he doesn’t pay attention.
“It’s not ridiculous. I’m moving out because I want to. It will be easier this way. You’ll see. More room.” Less tension.
“This is still your farm,” Kyle says. “It will always be your farm, even if I end up running it.”
That’s just about the most generous thing he’s ever said to me. “I appreciate that,” I say quietly. “But I have other interests, too. And it’s only Colebury, dude. I’m not moving to Europe.” Although sometimes I wish I could.
“Yeah, but you’re leaving me alone with this shit.”
Now it’s my turn to gape. I take in Kyle’s pissed-off face, his dark brown Shipley eyes that we don’t happen to share. “I’m not ditching you. Jesus. But I’m not planning on becoming a full-time farmer, Kyle, and I never will. I have other things to do, so I’m going to go do them.”
