Page 8 of Run, Run, Roommates
She gets the shower first, so I gather my clothes for tonight and set aside an outfit for my run first thing in the morning. I won’t set an alarm, since William is out of town, but I doubt I’ll be able to sleep much past my normal time. I mix my overnight oats, and then, with nothing else to do, sit on my bed, scrolling my phone and trying to think about other things than a naked Brin on the other side of the wall.
One reason Brin and I are able to share a bedroom so well is that she’s always working. Sixty hours at the restaurant most weeks, plus a few odd jobs dog walking for the neighbors or babysitting for the single mom two floors up.
I don’t know where all the money goes. Brin lives an austere life.
I would give anything to be able to slip Brin a hundred dollars and tell her she could only use it for something fun, but she already worries about being a charity case.
The bedroom door opens and Brin shuffles in, yawning. She’s wearing candy cane pajama pants that trail on the floor at her feet and a black tank top—no bra. Both her nipples point through the ribbed fabric and I avert my eyes. Her red hair is up in the microfiber turban that she often leaves hooked on the arm of the futon, the one she’s replaced the elastic on about a dozen times.
My eyes are drawn back to her when she gasps. “Look! The lights are working again!” Brin grew up in rural Tennessee, so she drawls everything, especially when she’s excited. Working is workin’ and again sounds like agin. Brin kneels on her futon, which she keeps in couch mode. She claims it’s cozier to sleep on it like this, but I think she doesn’t want to take up too much space in our room. She inspects the colored light strands that twine through the futon frame.
There are three strands, and a couple days ago one of them went out. They were basic multicolored lights, none of them matching perfectly.
Hopefully she doesn’t notice that the strand that was out this morning is slightly more symmetrically wound around the frame than the other two, or that the wire is black instead of green.
My chest goes warm just looking at her. Most people might think I don’t get the “true meaning of Christmas” because I don’t celebrate and hate the holiday. But that’s not true. I do get the true meaning of Christmas.
It’s not the hypocrisy of so many Christians that casts out their vulnerable people while simultaneously preaching about a child born in a manger out of necessity.
It’s not about people like my boss, who take lavish vacations and seek validation from others by throwing expensive, exclusive parties.
What it is about is the joy that Brin gets on her face, the simple pleasures of having a space that’s your own, and a warmth in your heart.
After all the loss in my life I never expected to feel that again. But as Brin hums a melody—“Happy Xmas (War is Over),” by John Lennon, I think—I snatch up my clothes and go to take my shower.
A cold shower.
Because my thoughts have wandered to what it would be like to kiss her, to pull off that tank top and give her so much pleasure she can’t stand it. But the last thing Brin needs is someone making her uncomfortable in her own home.
Again.
4
Brin
When I wake up in the morning, Marco’s bed is empty and his stack of running clothes is gone.
I get out of bed and light the candle on my nightstand, a thick red one that I’ve started lighting every day since the day after Thanksgiving that’s scented with “Holiday Sparkle.” Whatever that is, I like it. This one’s much better quality than the one I got last year, because the candle last year melted down to the metal the week before Christmas. This one is still halfway intact, so it’s definitely going to make it all the way to the twenty-fifth.
Bea’s door is cracked open, but it’s the last Friday before her Christmas vacation starts, so I know she’s at work, and the apartment has that supernaturally still feeling of an empty space. I have the place to myself right now.
There’s a cup of coffee waiting for me at the machine—thanks to Marco—which I gratefully gulp down since it’s lukewarm, and then make another cup.
Today I’m babysitting for Andrea, who lives upstairs. Her kid, Noah, is eight, and on Christmas break. Andrea’s a sanitation worker, and her mom is a nurse, and they need someone to fill in the gaps between their two schedules.
They pay a reasonable wage and the kid is fun—I know way more about Roblox than I ever desired to. But it makes me feel like a teenager, so desperate for money that I’ll take whatever job I can get. Most people my age are hiring babysitters, not working as one.
I mainline caffeine while I watch a few videos to figure out what’s new in the world of gaming so I can keep up a conversation with Noah. After babysitting, I’ll be working at the restaurant again tonight.
It’s a tough schedule, and a long day. But I like helping Andrea out and the tips at the restaurant are great over the holidays. Actually, pretty much since the start of December I’ve been taking home way more money than I ever have before.
And as much as possible goes to paying off my credit card debt.
It’s embarrassingly large. I had no idea what I was doing when I moved to New York City at twenty-three. I didn’t know how to be an adult—and two years later, I still don’t know how to be one. Most of the time I feel more like three raccoons in a trench coat than a functioning adult.
I don’t know how I got to be so lucky to meet and move in with Marco. And even Bea, who is kind, though so busy I rarely see her.
They both have their shit together better than I can even dream.
