Page 81 of Roommating

“You’re not even going to say something about it not beingmycouch?”

I sniffle.

I hear the comforter drop to the floor. “Shit. Are you okay?”

“Not really,” I mumble into the pillow.

He squeezes next to me on the couch. “I’m sorry I was an assbefore. You’re just a formidable opponent. Funny, sexy, and well-read. The best kind.”

I know he’s trying to make me laugh but I just can’t take the mixed messages on top of everything else. “Stop it. Believe it or not, not everything is about you.”

“So tell me what thisisabout.” There’s not a hint of defensiveness in his tone.

At the risk of falling for his soft-and-gentle act again, I sit up and hand him my phone open to the bank notification. At least he put a shirt on.

He takes it from me, his eyes widening as he reads the message.

“I have less than a hundred dollars in my bank account. Go ahead and say it. If only I’d paid with a check this wouldn’t have happened. You know you want to.”

“The check would have just bounced. And no, Idon’twant to.” He frowns. “Just because we disagree on what living situation is best for Marcia doesn’t mean I want the worst for you.”

“Oh. Thanks.” My voice quakes. I shouldn’t have bitten his head off when he was just being nice. I dip my head and rub the back of my neck. “I can’t believe I let it get this far.” I’m talking about my pathetic bank account, although this could also refer to my competition with Adam.

I make a mental list of where all the money went—groceries for dinner, ice cream at Van Leeuwen for the three of us after the comic show (which I insisted on paying for to prove whatever I was trying to prove), lunch with Carley, Starbucks between work and class, takeout dinner at Westside Market after school. I’d have to look at the app to see what else, but the point is, I spent more money than someone with very little money to begin with should spend, which amounted toallthe money I had in the bank aside from $98.73.

Adam swallows, then speaks. “You probably don’t want to hear this, but maybe you should tell your mom.”

My ribs squeeze. He’s right. Idon’twant to hear this. Asking my mom for money is a last resort. I’ll get paid again before rent is due in a couple of weeks. In the meantime, I’ll cool it with the spending, and I have a credit card for emergencies. “The first thing I need to do is call Verizon.”

Adam nods. “I’ll leave you to it then.”

I spend the better part of the next hour alternating between bypassing instructions to press one, two, or three depending on the reason for my call and listening to elevator music on hold. At one point, Adam brings me a Trader Joe’s Way More Chocolate Chips cookie. At no point does he raise the volume on the TV or ask me to relocate to my room. Eventually, I get through to a human being and arrange for an extension of time to pay my bill. Late payment fees will apply but at least my coverage won’t be interrupted.

Even so, I can’t sleep that night. And it has nothing to do with my disastrous financial situation and everything to do with Adam’s kindness. I’m more conflicted than ever.

Chapter Thirty-Five

The living room is empty when I get home from school two nights later. Marcia’s door is closed, but I can hear muffled voices coming from her room. Adam’s in there. Something prompts me to listen in, even though the last time I eavesdropped on their private conversation, I wished I hadn’t. But my name isn’t mentioned at all this time.

They’re debating whether it’s better to collect music on vinyl or CD. Marcia is team CD, insisting it’s cheaper and the audio quality is superior, but Adam’s focus is on the process and how much cooler it is to put a record on a turntable and drop the needle. As far as I know, Marcia doesn’t own a record player and if Adam does, he didn’t bring it here. The whole exchange is odd but also adorable. Then “Beast of Burden” by the Rolling Stones plays and the conversation stops. They’re listening together. My nose prickles as I picture grandma and grandson singing the lyrics duet style.

The guilt over potentially getting between Adam and his grandma haunts me, not constantly, but often enough that I second-guess our battle. This bonding moment doesn’t help matters. Maybe Adam’s more committed to living with his grandmother than I’m giving him credit for. I assumed switching jobs every six months and delaying making long-term plans meant those plans wouldn’t include staying with Marcia. What if I’m wrong?

From the other side of Marcia’s door, Adam says, “Night, Grams. See you tomorrow.”

Assuming he’ll enter the hallway any second, I spring to my room. When I toss my schoolbag on the bed, I knock a small stack of papers onto the floor. I peer at them from my standing position. They weren’t there when I left for work this morning. I bend to pick them up, sit on the edge of the bed with my feet dangling, and read the yellow Post-it note on top.

I printed these out from Roomster during lunch. See anything interesting?

I recognize Adam’s loopy and annoyingly neat handwriting from his handwritten grocery lists.Boomer.I can guess where this is going and should probably save my mental health by tossing them in the trash, but my curiosity gets the better of me.

Midfifties female looking to rent out bathroom in my one-bedroom West Village home. Bathroom is large enough to fit a twin air mattress. I will just need you to remove the mattress whenever I need to use the bathroom. $450 a month.

I laugh on instinct. The ad is hilarious, unlike the obnoxious note Adam left on top.

In case you’re looking for something more affordable

I read the next one.

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