Page 21 of Roommating

Marcia sucks her teeth. “You were at work. Last time I checked, it wasn’t possible to be in two different places at the same time.Adamshould have done it, and I should have left it for him.”

“You should have.” I twirl a hair around my finger. “Why didn’t you?”

She averts her gaze. “Because he left the living room a mess, and I didn’t want to wait until he got home.”

I playfully slap a hand on the bed and giggle-yell, “Marcia!”

Rocket growls; whether it’s because I raised my voice or slapped the bed, I’m not sure.

A part of me—an evil part I’m not proud of—gets a small thrill that Adam didn’t take care of her the way he should have, because maybe it means she still needs me in that role. I just wish this validation didn’t come at the expense of her comfort. “While we’re on the subject… sort of… am I doing everything I should to deliver on my end of our arrangement? Do you have any concerns about my um… performance?” Why is this so hard? My fingernails dig into my palms. Even though I heard her defend me to Adam, I crave direct reassurance that she trusts me.

The wrinkles in Marcia’s forehead deepen. “No! You’re wonderful. Ten out of ten, no notes, as you kids say.” She frowns. “Maybe I should be asking you the same thing. My grandson moving in wasn’t part of the deal either. Are you adjusting okay?”

I wave her off. “Absolutely.” This was the truth until recently, and I definitely don’t want her to know that I overheard their conversation. “It’s great you two are becoming so close.”

Marcia smiles for the first time since I walked in. “I do love that boy.”

Something warm tugs in my belly. “It’s obvious he loves you too.”

“He promises he’ll never leave the apartment without folding the couch again, and I promised to leave it alone if he breaks his promise.”

“And I promise to subject you both to my cooking if either of you break your promises!”

She chuckles. “Rain check on the dueling pianos tonight?”

“Absolutely.” Marcia’s other friends refused to trek to a bar in Hell’s Kitchen, but I thought it would be fun.

I take a shower to scrub remnants of peanut butter and jelly from the half sandwich a junior patron left between the pages ofCloudy with a Chance of Meatballsoff my skin, then retire to myroom, avoiding eye contact with Adam on my way to and from the bathroom.

Since my plans with Marcia have been postponed, I have nothing to do tonight. Adam’s in the living room, which means if I stay home, I’ll be trapped in my bedroom all night. I could use the opportunity to confront him as planned, but I’ve already talked myself out of it and don’t have the energy to talk myself back in. My eyes dart to my laptop and folder of printed reading assignments, but I don’t want to study on a night I reserved to have fun. I could text some friends or even tap into my apps to find a last-minute date and redirect my misguided sexual attraction to Adam toward a stranger. It’s been months since I’ve put effort into my love life. But I’m not convinced I want to be social. I decide it’s still early enough to play it by ear but blow-dry my hair so it’s not stringy and flat, just in case I decide to go out later.

When I turn off the blow-dryer, the first thing I notice is how eerily silent the apartment is. Even the near-constant din of the television seeping through my walls is absent. I step into the hallway in shorts and a T-shirt just as the front door to the apartment closes. The lights are all off. Adam’s gone out. Marcia is resting in her room. This feels like a sign from the universe to stay in and take advantage of what’s supposed to be communal space while I can.

After heating a frozen pizza for dinner, I get comfy on the couch, which I try to forget is also Adam’s bed, and watch Kimberly, Leighton, Bela, and Whitney slam shots and dance at a Kappa party onThe Sex Lives of College Girls.

I’m suddenly nostalgic for my own carefree days of college, when I wasn’t solely responsible for my finances, and everything didn’t… I don’t know…matterso much. The answer to my earlier internal question hits me: Idowant to be social. In fact, Ilongto be with friends. I chew my lip, wondering what Adam’s up to.

While Bela makes an inappropriate but hilarious sexual comment on the TV, I text my own inappropriate friend.

Sabrina:Drinks later?

Even if Carley wants to hang out after the show she’s working tonight, it will be past ten by the time the performance is over and she’s finished assisting the cast with makeup removal. I place the phone back on the coffee table assuming it will be a while before she responds, but within thirty seconds, my phone pings.

Carley:Keybar. 11:00

Chapter Eleven

Both Lyft and Via are charging premium Saturday-night rates that I can’t justify when public transportation is right outside my door. After standing in the cold for ten minutes, the crosstown bus finally shows up and crawls its way down Fourteenth Street until I get off on First Avenue. On my walk to Keybar, I text Gabe to see if he wants to join us. He says he’ll meet us there.

The place is packed. For every drink you buy at Keybar, you get a ticket for a free one of similar value that never expires. Naturally, it’s popular with the young and broke. I tuck my coat under my arm and weave my way through the crowd until I spot Carley at the bar at the far end. She’s facing the other way, but I know it’s her thanks to the tiny rabbit-shaped birthmark on her upper back, right above the line of her black satin slip dress. The first time I saw her birthmark when we met at summer camp, I dragged her into our bunk’s damp and mildewy bathroom and privately revealed the nearly identical birthmark on my left butt cheek. Convinced we were related in another life, we became instant best friends for eight weeks until camp was over. I switched to the more affordable day camp the following summer, and although we followed each other on social media, real life took over and we lost touch until we bumped intoeach other at Trader Joe’s ten years later and continued from where we left off.

Tonight, when I tap her shoulder, she turns around and beams. “Sabrina’s here. Rolo shots!” Next to her at the bar are Peter and Amy, two of the costume attendants for the show she’s currently working on. They have their heads bent toward each other in what looks like an intense conversation, but briefly greet me with smiles and waves before turning back to each other.

Carley looks me over and nods approvingly. “That look is fire.”

Glad I put more than minimal effort into my outfit—a low-cut black bodysuit top, high-waisted straight-leg jeans, and silver ankle boots—I do a small twirl.

Amy and Peter finish their private chat just as Gabe arrives. After brief introductions, the five of us do a round of the bar’s trademark Rolo shots and order five drinks, all free, three of them from the trio’s earlier round and the other two left over from the last time I was here. Not long after, thanks to loud deep house music and bordering-on-preposterous conversation with friends, I’m positive my night is even better than the one the suitemates were having onThe Sex Lives of College Girls.

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