Page 1 of Roommating

Chapter One

My seventy-two-year-old roommate Marcia is a ten.

I make this observation from behind my phone, primed to record her placing the first book on the black four-tier revolving bookshelf we spent most of our Sunday afternoon struggling to put together. “Are you ready?” I ask her.

Marcia shakes her head of chin-length salon-dyed blond hair. “I’m not sure. Why are there so many extra screws? Shouldn’t we have used them all?” Her gaze dips to the small clear bag holding at least ten leftover screws on the dark wood living room floor of our two-bedroom apartment in Union Square.

I shrug. “They’re probably spares. Ikea is generous that way.”

This may or may not be true, but the bookshelf is standing, which must count for something. I tuck my phone into the pocket of my high-waisted wide-leg jeans and squat. Then I slide the bag of extra screws under one of the flattened cardboard boxes at our feet before straightening my legs. Out of sight. Out of mind. “See? No extra screws anymore.”

“Clever,” Marcia says, her blue eyes twinkling. With a grunt, she bends her knees and retrieves the bag. “We should store them somewhere safe, just in case.”

I laugh. “It’s a good thing one of us is sensible, huh?”

She blows a raspberry. “I think you mean old.”

I smile fondly at her. I’d swallow a container of retinol in one gulp to look as good as Marcia in my seventies. “Age is relative. Compared to my twenty-four, sure, you’re older. But the guy in front of us at Trader Joe’s yesterday? Ninety if he’s a day. Compared to him, you’re but a young grasshopper.”

She waves me off and regards me with soft eyes. “Have I told you lately how happy I am that you live here?” She squeezes my forearm affectionately.

Warmth fills my belly. “Not as happy as I am,” I say, meaning it.

When I first moved to Manhattan from Connecticut after graduating college more than a year and a half ago, I shared a one-bedroom apartment with two girls I’d connected with through Craigslist. Our place was party central for pre- and post-bar outings several nights a week. It was all fun and games at first, but the lifestyle wasn’t sustainable while taking two courses a semester toward my master’s in library and information science and working approximately fifteen hours a week as a library page at a branch of the New York Public Library. Trying to focus on schoolwork in a “bedroom” partitioned with sheets while perpetually drunk twenty-three-year-olds shout “Woo!” on repeat less than ten feet away… well, I don’t recommend it.

Then I saw a segment on theTodayshow about a roommate app that matched younger adults with older people who had rooms to spare, and I found Marcia. The deal is, I pay obscenely low rent—by New York City standards—in exchange for taking care of the more physical burdens in her life, helping care for Rocket, her precious but hyperactive Jack Russell terrier, and demystifying the techie things that frequently trip her up. Even with the dismal salary I make atthe library and paying my own way through grad school with loans, I can afford it. It’s been a dream—both the living arrangement and Marcia, who’s become one of my best friends.

“Do you like it here?” Marcia asks.

For a second, I think she’s read my mind, but she’s referring to the bookshelf’s current placement in front of the window overlooking Fourteenth Street and to the right of the dark-gray suede sectional couch.

“It’s perfect. Time to christen this bad boy,” I say, gesturing to the hardcover copy ofNothing Like the Movieson the granite-covered square coffee table.

She chews her lip. “Maybe you should do the honors.”

I cock my head. “Do you want to take the video then?”

“I’d probably cut off your head, so no.”

I chuckle. “You said it, not me.” Marcia is comically horrible at taking pictures with her phone. We haven’t even attempted video yet.

“But I must look awful!” She stretches her royal blue sweatshirt over her cropped black leggings and smooths down her hair.

“You look gorgeous, but I won’t post unless you approve it first.”

She sighs and plucks the book off the table.

Victory. I clap. “Yay!” Once I confirm she’s ready, I start filming. “Momentous moment here! Watch as Marcia places the first book on the gorgeous bookshelf wejustput together. Go for it, Marcia!”

Marcia flashes a smile and hams it up, spinning the four-and-a-half-foot shelf for a full rotation before letting it come to a stop and carefully placingNothing Like the Movieson one of the top shelves.

From behind my phone, I shout, “Woo-h—”

Thunk.

The slab of wood holding the book crashes to the ground, takingNothing Like the Moviesand the three shelves below with it.

I jump. Marcia gasps. We share a moment of silence while we survey the crash site. I turn off the video. “Well, that was unfortunate.”

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