Page 1 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
1
I ROLL MY SHOULDERS BACKand take in a deep breath, then knock on the front door of the brick bungalow, planting what I hope is a friendly, open smile onto my face. But just as I bring my hand back to my side, the smile slips. Something isn’t right.
It’s the smell.
Another whiff and the scent clicks into place. It’s unmistakable, conjuring deep voices emanating from locker rooms, matte black cans of body spray, and multistep handshakes tailored to the narrow parameters of traditionally acceptable masculine intimacy.
It’s 100 percent grade-Adude.
And it’s not supposed to be here.
I turn, pivoting on the heel of my pump to squint at the “room for rent” sign at the end of the driveway, where the rideshare just deposited me. It’s there, in all of its hot-pink, bubble-lettered glory, the glitter highlighting the wordsprivate bathcatching the fading twilight this Friday evening with the same flair that snagged my attention Monday afternoon.
The sign’s unapologetic femininity had me prepared for fellow ladies, the proximity to UT Austin and a single room on offer all but guaranteeing students. It would be perfect. The sunny coeds would keep me hip to social media trends, while I introduced them to overlooked rom-coms from the aughts. They would turn to me for guidance, and while my ten-plus years of life experience had left me a bit jaded, in time, I would be softened by their fresh enthusiasm. We’d end up as linked emotionally as our ovulation cycles would be synced.
Derivative? Sure. But I’d woken up blind in my right eye that morning and clocked the Pepto-pink sign while en route to the first of two specialists who would tell me that they had no explanation for my condition. My boyfriend of five years had responded to my situation with a resigned “Now what?” that made clear how misplaced my optimism had been when we signed a two-year lease on our apartment last fall. And if being a medical mystery in a domestic situation of dubious stability wasn’t reason enough to dabble in a little escapism, Wednesday’s neurologist diagnosed me with optic neuritis: swelling on the optic nerve that’s preventing my brain from interpreting what my eye is trying to see. The kicker? Fifty percent of the time, the condition is the first sign of multiple sclerosis.
I was tossed into an MRI machine the same afternoon, and in the panicky day and a half I waited for my results, that glittery posterboard became a touchstone. My immune system might have turned on my nervous system, and I may no longer be able to ignore that the doomsday clock on my relationship is seconds to midnight, but there could be sisterhood in my future, and evenings spent in shared admiration for Nancy Meyers’s kitchens.
It was freak out or fantasize, and I chose the latter.
So it’s with a touch of desperation that I scan the porch, hoping to disprove what my nose is telling me. A pair of dark blue sneakers sits to the side of the battered welcome mat, which, I realize, is conspicuously devoid of anL:WE COME.
Ick. Never mind. I get back to the shoes, which dwarf my silver Fluevogs. I try rationalizing. My college roommate had huge feet! Or… maybe they belong to a boyfriend?
Heavy footsteps sound from inside the house, and I gather more evidence. There’s a triangular rack of dumbbells in the corner, the numbers on the weights ranging from 25 to 50, and to the right of the front door, I note a flash of white. I angle my head to use my good eye and find that the mailbox has been labeled with a torn piece of paper readingTHE DAWGHOUSEin incriminatingly masculine scrawl.
I cling to the hope of a house of endearingly raunchy, yoked ladies, one among them, perhaps, with a closet full of clodhoppers. I’m still struggling to spin theDAWGHOUSEsignage when the door opens. The scent I’d identified hits me in a cloud of concentratedbro, and a young man towers over me from the doorway. He’s cute, with wide dark eyes and a blond fade that speaks of regular maintenance. Early twenties, I’d guess, based on the softness of his cheeks. He’s a baby. A dudeling.
He cocks his head. “Hi?”
My desperation morphs into defeat; my imaginary bestie squad has been deposed by the bro-iest of bros. He might be a puppy, but he’s the physical embodiment of the body spray I’d recognized. He’s even dressed for the gym, wearing a T-shirt with the sleeves cut off and armholes extending almost to his waist.
But I’m determined to recover some shred of that sidelined fantasy;The Proposalhas something for everyone. I straighten and plaster on my winningest smile. “Hi! I’m Ellie.”
The dudeling continues to stare, the information, evidently, not meaningful to him.
“I’m here about the room?” I venture, feeling the corners of my mouth slip.
His wide eyes widen further. “You’rewho texted about seeing the room?”
I screw the smile back into place. “Yes. Oh! Did I not include my name?” He shakes his head, and I offer an apologetic grimace. “Sorry about that…” I trail off, hoping to inspire an introduction in return.
“Grant,” he says, voice distant. He takes a step back, pulling the door open further. “Come on in?”
Despite the ongoing mental and emotional whiplash, some sense of self-preservation manages to bubble up. I am about to follow an unfamiliar man—a puppy of an unfamiliar man, but an unfamiliar man nonetheless—into an unfamiliar space without relaying my whereabouts to anyone who might come to my aid or collect my remains.
A week ago, this would have been madness. But a week ago, I wasn’t half-blind, freshly dumped, soon to be unhoused, and waiting to find out if I have a debilitating nerve condition. Because even though my MRI showed no sign of nerve damage, it’s possible that I’m in an early, undetectable stage of MS. Another flare-up in the next six months would be confirmation. My boyfriend, Cole, couldn’t hack it long enough to get throughtonight’s semi-celebratory dinner, so here I am, having put all of my eggs in this fabulously misrepresented basket.
So I step into the bungalow.
Grant joins me, leaving the door open, which is appreciated. Inside, two more youths sit in lawn chairs, one reclining with his legs dangling over an armrest, eyes glued to his phone, while the other, whose seat is so low he’s basically on the floor, sits with a video game controller in his hands, attention firmly on the first-person shooter lighting up a massive flatscreen TV.
I scan the rest of the room, but there’s not much to take in. Nothing on the walls, no coffee table, and the only source of light is an audibly unbalanced ceiling fan. There’s a recliner toward the back of the room, just past the lounging guy, and between it and his folding chair, an end table I’m sure is meant to be a nightstand. There’s a beer bottle on the surface, and the lounging guy reaches back for it without lifting his eyes from his phone, takes a swig, and then puts it back down. No coaster. I suppress a twitch.
The one playing the video game turns his head nominally, offering an overly loud “Hola!” without looking away from the game. His curly dark hair is so voluminous, it buries his headset. The sound’s high enough that I can make out the rat-a-tat of gunfire.
The guy with the phone looks up. He stares at me. I stare back, because good God, this kid isstunning. He’s all chiseled cheekbones and dark-eyed smolder, with sideswept hair coiffed to careless perfection. I’m actually appreciative of my single-eye status; it’s like staring at the sun.
