Page 21 of Switch Pitching

I must have seen about fifty apartments today, and every single one has been a major letdown. Half of the viewings were for places with kitchens so small I could reach across and touch every appliance from the fridge. Don’t even get me started on rustic (unmaintained) wood floors and exposed (cost-cutting) industrial ceilings. Or layouts that make no sense at all. Who decided that slapping a stove and sink onto a random wall qualifies as a kitchen?

My pet peeve? Bad kitchens. Can’t stand them.

I need to find something that works for both me and Ethan because he should feel like it’s his place too. I can already picture us chilling after games, shooting the shit, and bonding. If he didn’t end up agreeing to live with me, I know I’d beg him to come over and hang out constantly, just because I’d need that company.

My phone rings, interrupting my crisis spiral. It’s Mom.

“Hey, Mom,” I groan, leaning myself against a mailbox. The April sun beats down, making me sweat uncomfortably in my too-thick wool sweater.

“Hi James, how’s everything in Boston?”

“Oh, amazing, Mom. I’m apartment hunting and it’s so fun. Just locked down the perfect place, right downtown, it’s four floors tall, 9000 square feet, and it comes with seven butlers. Best of all, it’s free!”

Mom laughs quietly on the other end. “James, you’re being dramatic. What are you actually looking for?”

“Well, you know, the usual,” I reply, frustration seeping through the phone. “Somewhere walking distance to the ballpark. With a private elevator. And four bedrooms, five bathrooms, a decked-out kitchen, and… ooh, a hot tub!”

“A hot tub?” Mom asks, intrigued.

“Yeah, a hot tub. Can’t live without one. Gotta soak to recover after games and stuff.”

There’s a pause on the other end, and I can almost hear her rolling her eyes. At least that’s what I think she’s doing.

“Don’t worry, I got you,” she says, her tone serious.

“Wait, what?” It’s no use. She’s already hung up.

Unease starts to twist in my stomach as I wonder if Mom is about to do something over the top. That’s a common theme with her. I know she means well, but sometimes she goes way too far, like the time my sister Sofia mentioned how cold her walk to university was, and the next morning, there was a $70,000 car parked outside her house, all thanks to Mom.

Shoot, I’m officially freaking out. What the hell is going on? Mom might be off calling around and finding an apartment that costs ten thousand a month, per person. Ethan wanted abasicapartment. Abudget-friendlyplace. Not one with unrealistic everything.

I try to call her back, but it goes straight to voicemail. I try again. And then I call the landline that my parents refuse to get rid of. Straight to the answering machine.

Then, Dad texts me.

Dad

Your mom’s off doing something, I don’t know what

One of her productive moods

I’ll try and tell her to call you back

I put my phone away and stare at the sidewalk. Fuck. This is getting out of control.

I get the call a couple hours later when I’m back in my hotel, trying to calm my nerves with a donut.

“Uh, hey Mom,” I say, trying to keep my voice within its normal octave.

“Guess who found you a place, sweetie?” Her voice is brimming with excitement.

“You did what?”

“I bought you an apartment!”

“Hold up. You bought me an apartment?” Am I hearing her right?

I’m already dreading the conversation where I have to explain this to Ethan.

---