Page 52 of Roommate
He doesn’t ask what for. “You’re welcome,” he whispers. “Sleep tight.”
I do.
Roderick
I’m not getting up.
Maybe ever.
My limbs are heavy against silky sheets. I’m stretched out on a thick mattress. My body hasn’t known such luxury in weeks. And when I open my eyes, I see the honeyed skin of a naked man spread out on the bed beside me.
It’s basically my version of heaven.
But as my consciousness comes fully online, paradise crumbles like a poorly made pie crust. In the first place, that’s my roommate, coworker, and landlord who’s naked beside me. And I distinctly remember telling him that I wouldn’t corrupt a drunk man.
And then I did exactly that.
Secondly—and I’m just realizing that this is far worse—it’s not nearly dark enough in this room. The gray sky outside Kieran’s window means morning is arriving.
Morning. On a day when I’m supposed to open the kitchen. Oh my God. What have I done?
I bolt upright and slide out of bed, almost stepping on my phone where it rests on the floor beside my underwear. I never plugged it in last night. And now it’s obviously dead, because the alarm failed to go off at five thirty like it was supposed to.
Grabbing my dead phone as well as the underwear, I sprint for the door, nearly turning an ankle as I go tipping down Kieran’s staircase, like some loser Cinderella whose job is about to turn into a pumpkin because he had some tequila and forgot to keep his dick in his pants.
I’m so dead.
Three minutes later, I’ve dressed and brushed my teeth. I don’t glimpse a clock until I crank the engine of my car, and the dashboard comes to life. And there it is—proof of my complete failure to behave like an adult. It’s 6:53 a.m.
I’ll be arriving at work an hour and a half late. When the coffee shop opens in seven minutes, there won’t be any bagels. Or pretzels. Or muffins. The coffee won’t even be ready.
I zoom down the hill and barely come to a stop in the gravel parking lot before flinging myself out of the car. When I reach the door, I’m face to face with Benito—one of Zara’s brothers.
“Driving a little fast, there,” he says mildly.
“Sorry,” I sputter, remembering that he’s a cop. I shove the key into the lock and wave him in after me. “I got bad news. I’m very, very late for work, and there aren’t any pastries.”
“Oh shit,” he says, which pretty much sums it up.
“Benito?” calls Zara from the kitchen. “There will be muffins in a half hour. It’s the best I can do.”
My stomach quivers with fear.
“Anything day-old?” Benito asks hopefully, walking over to the basket where we offer day-old pastries, individually wrapped, for half price.
“Just take whatever you want!” Zara yells. I hear the oven door slam. “Roderick, get the coffee on. Hurry.”
“I’ll do it,” Benito says. He slips behind the counter and turns on the grinder. “Go bake something. Your public needs you.”
I duck into the kitchen and grab an apron. “Zara, I’m so damn sorry. My phone died.”
“It happens,” she says tightly. “What can you bake the fastest?”
I close my eyes and fight off a wave of pure panic. I cannot lose this job. I’ve got to stop being the guy who screws up every break people give him with some stupid decision or another. “Biscuits,” I decide. “Soda-leavened biscuits. And then scones.”
“Okay, get to it,” she says. “I have to open up out front.”
For the next twenty minutes, I’m the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character—spinning around the kitchen like a maniac. Cubed butter, flour, salt, and soda all land in a bowl. The mixer paddles are a blur. I fold in some shredded cheese and chives, and plop the dough onto baking trays at top speed. They go into the oven the minute Zara’s muffins are out. I burn my fingers when I dump the muffins from the pan before they’re ready and line them up on a tray.
