Page 13 of Roommate
“Can we call you after we get a chance to sort ourselves out?” Zara asks. “Audrey and I need to huddle up and figure out if we’re ready to hire a full-timer.”
“Of course!” I say, snapping out of my funk. “You have my résumé, with the references on the back. Just holler if you have any questions.”
I shake everyone’s hand, except for Kieran’s. He’s too busy scrubbing a pan like he’s trying to teach it a lesson.
Then I get back into my car and continue my job search.
* * *
At seven o’clock that evening, my unemployed butt is running a quick three miles on the treadmill at the gym. I’ve had no calls from Zara, or from anyone else.
I spent the afternoon trying to put in applications at bakeries and restaurants around the area. I visited Price Chopper and also the Colebury Diner. Nobody needs a baker.
That’s the curse of a small town—a tiny labor market.
I suppose I could go back to Nashville. My boss would take me back. But Nashville isn’t really my home. It was Brian Aimsley’s. And since I never want to see him again, I can’t make myself go back.
The treadmill keeps me at a steady pace, and my feet slap against the belt as I try to burn off another wave of fear and anger. For the last three years I gave my whole soul to Brian. The more I think about it, the worse I feel.
Our Nashville friends were really his friends. Our social life happened on his schedule. He’s a musician who frequently tours, so I’d stack up my work hours for the times when he was gone, making myself available when he was home.
I was so accommodating. And he gave so little back.
There’s sweat dripping off my body now, so I hit the stop button and slow my paces. When I step off the treadmill, the floor does that thing where it feels like I’m still in motion. Teetering, I grab my phone and peek at the messages, because hope springs eternal. And—boom! There’s a text from an unknown 802 number.
Roderick—can you come to the Busy Bean tomorrow morning at seven? We discussed it and we want to do a trial period. If tomorrow is bad, let us know when you can come. —Zara.
Hot damn. I didn’t think I’d get this chance. But I sure am happy about it. Tomorrow at seven I’ll bring out my A-game in the kitchen. I will bake perfect bagels. I will dazzle with pizzas and pastries. I will scrub the floor if they ask me to. And I will charm the heck out of them while I’m doing it.
And somehow I’ll make friends with Kieran Shipley. Not that it will be easy. If only I hadn’t said, “Who’s the Peeping Tom?” I hadn’t been referring to high school—my word choice was just a shitty coincidence. He must know that, right?
The only things I know about him are that he’s smoking hot and he used to enjoy watching me blow another guy under the bleachers. I spotted him that first time, and then he kept coming back.
Maybe he’s in the closet and thinks I’m going to out him. But Kieran has nothing to fear from me. Unless he’s afraid of excellent bagels.
* * *
That night—after another shower at the gym, and a takeout sandwich—I park my car behind a yarn shop that’s on a curve in the road. The parking spot isn’t visible from neighboring properties, and the sign in the window says they open tomorrow at ten a.m.
I still don’t feel safe. Once again I spend the night squirming around in the passenger seat, waiting for a psycho to bash in my windshield with an ax and murder me. Anxious thoughts chase through my brain at dizzying speed.
On the plus side, it’s no problem showing up for work before dawn. I can’t wait to get out of this car. At six a.m. I’m brushing my teeth with bottled water and tidying up my hair with a wet comb. By six thirty, I’m rolling into the Busy Bean parking lot.
I’m so early that I have to tap on the kitchen window to let Audrey know that I’m here. She opens the door with, “Morning, sunshine. There’s no coffee yet, but we can fix that soon.”
“I’d be happy to make it,” I offer. Although I haven’t eaten much these past few days, and my stomach is too empty for coffee.
Being broke is the worst. I just need a little bit of luck to come my way before I can stop feeling like a homeless loser.
“Grab an apron,” Audrey says, pointing to the clean ones on a hook. “I’m making biscotti.”
“How can I help?”
“Sliver these almonds?” She tosses me a bag.
“No problem.” I wash my hands and get to work.
We work together for a while in companionable silence. We finish the biscotti and then move on to two kinds of muffins—corn and pear ginger. “The pears are from Zara’s family’s orchard,” she says. “We use local food as often as we can.”
