Page 80 of Roommate
“Nah, I’ll just lick it off you later.”
I have to stop sawing, because I’m laughing so hard.
Christmas has its moments. Who knew?
Roderick
When Kieran and I are alone together, he’s loose and easy, and he talks more. He talks a lot, actually; he’s much more open than he used to be. But the minute we approach his family’s farmhouse with the tree, I can almost see the tent flaps go down. He stands the tree up and gives it a little shake, and his face is all business.
The door opens to reveal a middle-aged woman with Kieran’s pretty eyes. “That’s gorgeous!” she says. “Thank you, honey.”
“Sure,” Kieran grunts. “Mom, this is Roderick. My roommate.”
“Hi, Roderick! So you’re the roommate!”
“Yup,” I say, bobbing my head nervously. “I’m the roommate. In the downstairs room. We have separate bathrooms.” I clamp my lips together, trying to shut up, but Kieran’s discomfort is contagious.
“Come in, come in!” she says, oblivious. “I made hot cocoa.”
“Nice. Thank you, Mrs. Shipley.” I follow Kieran inside. His arms are full of Christmas tree.
“Call me Sally!” she says brightly.
This stings a little, if I’m honest. It’s my daydream to love a man who will introduce me to his mother. Not as his roommate, but as his partner.
I’d better stop falling for guys who won’t do that. You’d think I’d learn.
The Shipley abode is another classic New England farmhouse with white clapboards and those electric candles in the windows. The floors are hardwood, and there’s a fire in the fireplace.
It’s not cozy, though. And not particularly comfortable. It’s the kind of house with old-fashioned furniture and doilies on the tables. The kitchen table is in a claustrophobic little nook. When I look around at the furnishings, I’m struck by how different it is from our house on the Colebury green. Kieran chose a deep, comfortable couch for our living room, modern print pillows, and a plush rug.
Interesting.
Kieran carries the tree through to the living room, where a stern-faced man is sitting in a hardbacked chair. “Hello,” he says in a low voice to me. “Kieran, thanks for cutting the tree.” He winces, as if it pains him to say this. Or maybe he’s just generally in pain.
“No problem,” my man says quickly. “Roderick, if you could line this up at the base, I’ll jam it down on the spikes.”
“Sure.” I drop to my knees and align the tree’s trunk with the stand’s metal ring. “Okay, go for it.”
There’s a very dirty joke I could make right now about jamming his log down through my ring. And I wonder why men don’t introduce me to their moms.
“How’s that, Dad? Straight?” Kieran asks.
His mother jumps in. “Two inches toward the window. Good. Now another two inches toward the door.”
After a few minutes of fussing, I tighten the screws onto the trunk, while Kieran holds the top in the right spot.
“How’s the desk job?” his father asks.
“Fine,” Kieran says. “But the hours are long. Partly because of the holidays.”
“And partly because they’re jerks,” I mutter, turning the last screw.
“I don’t know about that job,” Kieran’s dad opines from his chair. “Long drive for low pay. You got two dead-end jobs. Can’t make a career out of a coffee-shop job.”
“Dad,” Kieran gasps. “Leave it alone.”
Luckily, I’m able to gulp back my bark of laughter in time. Because of course I’m trying to build a career from a coffee-shop job. And that goal is at the tippy-top of my list. Well, that and seeing Phish in concert.
