Page 4 of Married As Puck
Through the window, I can see him pacing, one hand running through his dark hair. Whatever conversation he’s having, it’s not going well. His free hand gestures sharply, and even though I can’t hear the words, his body language screams frustration.
I turn back to my pasta, but I keep watching him. There’s something desperate in the way he’s moving, like this phone call might determine his entire future. For the first time since I arrived, I feel a flicker of sympathy.
Then I remember sleeping on Julia’s lumpy couch for two weeks, remember the security deposit I can’t afford to lose, remember all the times I’ve been the one who had to adjust, had to compromise, had to make do with less.
If this turns out to be a scam, I am going to scream.
When he comes back inside, his face is grim. He looks at me like he’s seeing me for the first time, really taking in the fact that I’m not going anywhere. It’s like he forgot I was here for a second.
"Look," he says finally, and his voice has lost some of its sharp edge. "This situation is…not right… Whenever we get in contact with the landlord, we can solve it. Until then, I can’t leave. There are circumstances..."
I stir the pasta, not looking at him. "But I have a lease that started today, and I need a place to live. Your circumstances don’t trump my legally binding agreement."
He’s quiet for so long that I finally turn around. He’s staring at the floor, and in the light from the kitchen, I can see he looks exhausted. Not just tired, he’s like completely wrung out, like he hasn’t slept in days.
"How long?" I ask, surprising myself with the question.
"What?"
"How long do you need to figure out your circumstances?"
He looks up at me, and I catch something raw in his expression before he locks it down. "I don’t know. A few days, maybe a week."
I consider this, twirling pasta around my fork. A week isn’t forever. And despite his attitude, he hasn’t actually tried to physically remove me, which shows more restraint than I’ve gotten from some men.
"Fine," I say finally. "One week. But I’m staying in your guest bedroom. We share the apartment until you figure out your next move."
Relief flashes across his face so quickly I almost miss it.
"I’m setting ground rules."
His eyebrows raise slightly. "You’re setting ground rules? In my apartment?"
"Ourapartment. Temporarily." I lean against the counter, trying to look more confident than I feel. "No bringing random people over without warning. No hogging the bathroom during morning rush hours. And if you eat my food, you replace it."
"Fine. Same goes for you."
"Obviously." I pause, then add, "And I get to use the kitchen whenever I want. I’m not going to tiptoe around your schedule."
"Agreed." He hesitates, then says, "One more thing. If anyone asks, you don’t know me."
The request is strange enough that I study his face, looking for clues. "Why?"
"Because I said so."
The dismissive tone grates on me, but I nod anyway. "Fine by me. I prefer keeping to myself."
When dinner is ready, we eat in silence, sitting at opposite ends of the kitchen island like we’re afraid of contaminating each other. The pasta is good, but the tension makes it hard to enjoy. Every few minutes, one of us glances at the other, then quickly looks away.
This is going to be the longest week of my life.
After dinner, I escape to my room and call Julia. She picks up on the second ring, and I can hear the TV in the background.
"Please tell me you didn’t get murdered by your mysterious roommate."
"Not yet." I flop onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. "Turns out he’s supposed to move out but can’t for some reason. We’ve agreed to coexist for one week."
"A week? Brie, are you insane?"
