Page 8 of Roommate
“It has to be easier than driving clear across Vermont to work that desk job. And you’re pouring coffee in the mornings. Seems like you could save yourself a lot of trouble and take a job at the hardware store in town.”
“So you’d have me quit the Busy Bean and bail on Audrey and Zara? Is that the Shipley way?” The Bean is owned by Audrey Shipley, my cousin’s wife. If my mom was gonna pull the family card, it seemed worth mentioning.
My father shrugs, as if I’m being ridiculous. “Audrey can find someone else to sell muffins, no?”
“How about you let me figure out the best way to get paid?” I ask, and each word is a little chip of ice. The undertone is perfectly clear, too—if he’s not paying me, then he can shut the hell up. “I just offered you every spare hour of my week. Is that not good enough?”
“It’s great,” Kyle says quickly. “We’ll figure this thing out, right?”
“Right. But you’ll have to be thoughtful about your schedule. Baling those oats is a two-man job, so you’re going to have to make yourself available when I’m off work.”
“No problem,” he says.
“That means baling and handling the fences even when there’s football on TV.”
“I know. Jesus.” Kyle gives me a grumpy look, too.
But I already know how this is going to play out—a long, cold season doing farm work after putting in a full day at my other two jobs.
“If we all pull together, it will be okay,” my mother says.
“That’s right,” Kyle echoes. “And cold drinks when the work is done. That’s the Shipley way.”
He makes it sound so simple. Meanwhile, I’m sitting across the table, trying not to scream.
In this house, that’s the Shipley way.
Roderick
I pass a difficult night in the passenger seat of my car.
In the first place, it’s harder to find a safe place to park than you’d think. Being invisible isn’t easy. I’m afraid to lurk where the cops might notice me. I suppose I could google homeless shelters in Vermont and find one.
But I don’t want to. When I was eighteen, I spent some time in homeless shelters. I’d rather not repeat that experience. I am never going to be that terrified teenager again. I don’t want to go back to that defeated mental state. I don’t want to even say the word homeless. I’m just between houses at present. At least this time I have a car. I’m locked in and safe.
That’s what I’m trying to tell myself, anyway. But sleep is fitful. Every little sound wakes me up. I’m parked behind a dumpster in back of a karate dojo. I keep expecting to see a police cruiser pull up with its lights flashing.
Also, my legs are numb, and whenever I try to roll over, I smack my knee against the door.
I doze fitfully. At some point during the darkest part of the night, my thoughts turn to my ex, Brian. He’s asleep in our bed right now, sprawled out and comfortable. His bed. It was never really ours. I spent three years loving him on his terms. Hiding our relationship in public. Feeding on the scraps of attention he was willing to give.
On some level I always knew he wasn’t capable of loving me back, even though he would sometimes tell me he did. But just as often he’d push me away. He’d “forget” about our plans, or change his mind at the last minute. He did these things just to keep me on edge—to prove that I wasn’t really necessary in his life.
Eventually I got clingy and threw down an ultimatum, which he pretended to consider. But then? He cheated just to make sure I knew he was in charge.
That’s the Cliffs Notes. And now I’m sleeping in my car, because he froze me out of our bank account the minute I left town. At a gas station in Massachusetts I realized he’d canceled my credit cards, too.
Forget my numb ass—it’s hard to sleep when you’re questioning all your life choices.
Dawn comes eventually. I blink my bleary eyes and make a plan. First I’ll hit the Colebury Diner for a cheap plate of eggs. Then I’ll brush my teeth and wash my face in the men’s room.
It’s a thirty minute drive to Norwich, where I did a one-month internship at King Arthur Flour after culinary school. I’ll get there by eight a.m., when they take their first break. My old boss is still listed on the website. I’ll dazzle him with my recent experience, and he’ll offer me a job on the spot.
And if that doesn’t work, I’ll cruise by every bakery in Vermont. Something will work.
* * *
Two hours later, I leave the fancy new King Arthur facility feeling discouraged. Gone is the cozy, undersized kitchen where I learned to bake sourdough. The new gleaming commercial space was as unfamiliar as the faces in it. My former boss has moved into management and works in a different building now.
