Page 3 of Ellie Hayes and the Himbos
“You can’t just leave like that in the middle—”
I end the call, and a few taps later, succeed in putting the thing on do not disturb. I’ll figure out how to block him later.
I look up to find that I am once again being observed like I am part of a zoo exhibit. I brace for the inevitable onslaught of questions.
Who was that?
Did he dump you? Why?
How do you feel about the dissolution of yet another relationship as a direct result of your defective body?
The imagined interrogation is enough to have me blinking back tears. Anger shudders through me.No.I’ve managed to get through this week without crying once. And while the greaterimplication of the breakup might be worth a few tears, Cole, who, despite two years of cohabitation, still doesn’t know where we keep the goddamn salad spinner, isnot.
Steeled, I raise my chin and wait.
All three men dissolve into laughter.
Grant points to the phone, one side of his mouth hitched up in a smirk. “He sounded like atool.”
“Right?” Diego chuckles, back to his eye-encroaching grin. Alistair snorts.
Grant nudges my shoulder gently. “Seems like you could use a beer.”
I look from bro to bro to bro. That’s… it? No commentary. “A beer?” I manage, still floored by their lack of reaction. What they overheard was downright delicious! If I’d listened in on that, I’d be dying for details.
“Ah! A beer!” Diego returns to his seat, deposits his headset and controller, and turns to me with a sweaty, unopened bottle.
I start to shake my head, then stop, letting my good eye land on the label. Shiner Bock. When was the last time I had a Shiner? Between Cole’s aversion to macrobrews and the never-ending supply of options that comes with dating a wine rep, I can’t think of the last time I’d hadanybeer. It sounds perfect. “That would be great, actually. Thank you.”
“My pleasure!” Diego twists off the cap and extends the bottle to me. I swear, he bows slightly as he hands it off.
I raise the beer appreciatively, and Grant does the same, while Alistair reaches back for the drink defacing the end table behind him and Diego scrambles to his chair for his bottle.
“Cheers?” I offer.
“Cheers!”
We clink bottles, though Alistair doesn’t deign to get up to toast. I drink. I don’t know that I consciously decide to chug the whole thing, but I commit, the mental middle finger to Cole and his snobbery and weakness and every other character flaw I’ve spent years overlooking absolutely worth the watering eyes.
I finish with a gasp, then blot my eyes. I silently thank the bighorn on the label. GoodGod, that hit the spot.
They’re staring again. Even Alistair gawks, dazzling features slack in shock.
“Dude,”they chorus, the single syllable coming out with no shortage of admiration. I’m oddly proud.
“It’s been a day,” I say flatly.
“No shit,” says Grant, and he lets out a little laugh. “So, you want to see the room?”
2
THE SPACE IS SIMPLE.Just a bedroom, as advertised, with honey-colored hardwood floors and exposed beams. No odor beyond the stale air of an unused space, and nothing so obviously unacceptable that my good eye can pick up on it. There’s a mattress pressed against one wall, wrapped in plastic, though I’m not sure if that’s good or creepy, and past it, a darkened doorway, what I presume is the bathroom. And the windows! I don’t know if it’s the influence of the beer, which I am absolutely feeling, or the sheer scope of the divided panes of glass dominating the south wall, but I could swoon. My plants would be so happy here.
Behind me, Grant clears his throat. “So, um…This is it? Bathroom.” He points to the door I noticed, then to the one we entered through. “And the rest of the house. Obviously.”
My apprehension sparks back to life. I’d made a point not to peek into any of the rooms we passed as Grant led me down the hallway, lest I spy something that would send me running from the place before I’d gotten a chance to scope out the one on offer. But a shared kitchen. If I go through with this, I’ll be sharing akitchen, laundry room, and common areas with three unknown variables in lawn chairs.
My memory drifts to the substandard living conditions of male friends and guys I dated in my undergraduate days. Suspiciously stiff towels. Microwaves so crudded up, they had to be pried open. One guy I worked with had a pump bottle of dish soap in his shower in lieu of body wash.
