Roommaid

by Sariah Wilson

  I’ll admit that made me smile. Just a little. But we needed some parameters. I didn’t want to be harassed by him or by my family. “You may not want to accept it, but this is done. We don’t have to tell our families right away.” That was a bit selfish on my part, but I most definitely did not want my mother hounding me day and night over it while I was in the middle of figuring out my life. “But I think it would be better for both of us if we agree to no contact.” It shouldn’t have been too hard, considering he’d been silent for the last few months. “That means no texts, no phone calls, no emails. It will make it easier for us to move on.”

  Brad cleared his throat, as if unsure what to say next. It was so unlike him. He was always confident, his place in the world so sure and so secure that nothing ever threatened him. “Okay. I can do that. I would like to be able to plead my case, but I’ll wait for you. I’m going to show you how much I’ve changed, how devoted I am to you.”

  He leaned forward, as if he meant to kiss me. I stepped out of reach and I saw a combination of hurt and something else—anger?—in his eyes.

  With that, he left the room. I leaned against my dad’s desk, taking in a couple of deep breaths to center myself. The most logical response would be to find him, give him back the bracelet, and tell him in front of everyone that things were definitely over.

  But I held back because I knew if I did, if I told him it was over, my parents would never recover. This dinner would be the last time I’d see them. They’d called me here only so that Brad could talk to me and pass along his bribe.

  So many of their plans and hopes to expand their business and launch themselves into a new social stratum were pinned on me marrying into the Branson empire. If I were being honest, I could admit that Brad had been a safety net for me. If I ever got tired of fending for myself and decided to be absorbed back into the collective, he was my ticket home. Marrying him would erase every rebellious choice I’d made to this point. He was my get-out-of-jail-free card.

  But I had to let go of that possibility. Things were over between us and had been for a long time. Maybe I should have made that clearer to him. Let him know that there definitely wasn’t any hope for us getting back together. Because I was done with him and our very toxic past.

  While I debated whether or not I should find him and make sure he understood that we were done, I heard Vanessa say, “Did I hear wedding bells? When’s the big day?”

  “I’m not engaged,” I told her.

  She closed the study door behind her. “That’s a shame.” She cradled her stomach with her left hand. “You should hurry up and make that happen. It’s your one job.”

  I resented the implication that my only purpose in life was to marry Brad. “What if I don’t want to marry him?”

  “Since when did anybody here care about that?” I heard the resentment in her tone. I wanted to feel bad for her, but marrying Gilbert had been her choice. “You and Brad would make a good team.”

  “I don’t want to be part of a team. I want to be in love.”

  She let out a laugh, tinged with bitterness. “You are such a child. It’s better to be with someone who understands you and your lifestyle. Who wants the same things out of life that you do.”

  That sounded lonely to me. “Why can’t I have both?”

  “Because that’s not how real life works. It’s time you grew up and realized that. Do your duty for this family and what’s expected of you. Your rebellious little tantrum has gone on long enough.”

  “In case you didn’t know,” I said with a shake of my head, “you are turning into Mom. And I always thought you were better than that.”

  Vanessa gasped in outrage as Coughlin entered the room, carrying my coat. “Julio is waiting for you, Miss Madison.” He handed me my coat and I again was struck with the urge to kiss his cheek for saving me.

  I walked out of the study without looking back, heading directly for the black town car in front of the house. I climbed in before I could be accosted by another member of my family and as Julio headed down the long driveway I wondered what Vanessa had been up to.

  What was her goal? Was she trying to trick me down the same miserable path her life had taken? If she suffered, so should everyone else?

  Or was she using some kind of reverse psychology, hoping to push me into publicly breaking up with Brad? Knowing how angry it would make our parents? Ensuring the amount of her inheritance went from thirty-three percent to fifty?

  Sighing, I leaned my head back against the seat. What I did know was two things—I didn’t want to play any more Huntington games.

  And despite his hopes that I’d keep an open mind, I really didn’t want to get back together with Brad.

  The next day, after school, Delia had to stop by the grocery store before she dropped me off at home. As we passed by a display of dog food, I felt proud of myself that I had successfully fed and watered Pigeon earlier that morning. Or, I assumed I had because she hadn’t come out to eat when I called for her.

  While I followed Delia through the aisles, a box of macaroni and cheese caught my attention. Another food that had been banned from my household that I’d always wanted to try thanks to commercials.

  When she dropped me off, I was eager to make my own dinner. I checked Pigeon’s food bowl and saw that she had eaten. I grabbed her some more kibble before taking my box of mac and cheese over to the counter to read the directions.

  Because that’s all cooking was, right? Following directions?

  I had no idea what a saucepan was, or how it was different from a pot. But I found one that looked like the image on the box. It sounded easy: boiling water, putting in the pasta until it got soft.

  Why hadn’t I tried this years ago?

  While I waited for the water to boil, I started wandering around the apartment. I had mostly kept to my room and hadn’t had much of a chance to investigate. While I decided snooping in Tyler’s room was off limits, I figured anything in our communal living space was fair game.

  In the living room he had an eclectic mix of books. Some of them were about finance and looked like they were old college textbooks. Others looked like they were about computers and programming. But most of his books were spy novels. And they looked worn, as if he’d read them often.

  I loved that.

  I checked out his movies on the media stand just below the TV. I expected to see action thrillers about spies, given his reading tastes, but instead found a bunch of sci-fi DVDs with a couple of big-budget explosion fests thrown in. Along with a few romantic comedies. Hm. I frowned. Had he picked them out or had some previous (or current) girlfriend left them here?

  When I put the DVDs back, I noticed a stack of what looked like ticket stubs on top of the stand. They were parking tickets and I wanted to laugh. Apparently Tyler wasn’t great at reading the permitted parking hours on signs. He suddenly seemed so much more human to me.

  And why did I find his illegal parking adorable?

  I heard the sound of the water boiling on the stove. After I located a bowl with holes in it so that I could drain the pasta, I set the pan down. Then I read over the directions again. I needed butter and milk. I found the butter . . . but no milk. I didn’t know how much of an issue this was going to be and I was concerned.

  There was a quarter gallon of chocolate milk left in the fridge. I considered my options. How bad could it be? I’d eaten cheese and chocolate together for dessert many times. I poured in a quarter cup of the chocolate milk and added the “cheese” packet.

  Maybe I’d just discovered a new side hobby and I could become a YouTube star. I’d make videos of me combining interesting flavors for basic foods.

  And I held on to that notion that it could work right up until the moment when I put my concoction in my mouth.

  It was like misery combined with regurgitated chocolate and wet, curdled cheese. Foul. I spit my bite back into the bowl.

  Pigeon wandered into the kitchen, keeping distance between us as she
went over to her food bowl.

  “Don’t mind me. Just over here committing food felonies,” I told her. I stuck the pan back into the sink to rinse it out. I didn’t know a lot about dogs, but I did remember reading they couldn’t eat chocolate. I didn’t know if that included chocolate milk, and while I couldn’t imagine Pigeon would want a bite of this monstrosity, it was better to be safe than sorry.

  My phone buzzed, and my heart fluttered when I saw who the text was from. Tyler.

  How were things? I lacked the basic ability to even feed myself. But that was probably not something I should tell him considering that he believed I could do things. Like cook. And clean stuff.

  And keep his dog alive.

  Wow, deep meaningful answer.

  That made me smile and I considered whether or not I should work on raising my own blood alcohol level a little, but my mess of a dinner had ruined my whole night. I wasn’t even hungry anymore. My war crimes against food had effectively ruined my own appetite, something I never would have thought possible. Since I’d failed so spectacularly at cooking, I figured cleaning couldn’t be much worse.

  I retrieved the cleaning list Tyler had made up and hung on the fridge. It was then that I noticed he’d doodled a bunch of stick figures acting out the various chores and it made me smile again. First on the list was filling up the dishwasher.

  I’d seen Shay fill the dishwasher many times. I knew from her past scoldings that I was supposed to rinse stuff out and then make sure the water sprays could reach the whole surface of the dish when I put it in. Easy enough. After I’d put in all the dishes I’d dirtied, I grabbed some that Tyler must have left out from that morning. I’d smelled bacon when I woke up, but he’d been long gone and so had the bacon.

  I grabbed the heavy pan he’d used off the stove and put it in the dishwasher. I knew I was supposed to add soap. Shay had a powder she’d pour into the little drawer. I didn’t see any powder. Just something called Dawn that was blue. It said dishwashing liquid on the front of the bottle. This must have been the brand that Tyler used. I wasn’t sure how much to put in, so I filled the slot full, closed it, and pushed start.

  Feeling very accomplished, I headed off to the hall bathroom, which was basically mine. Although guests would probably use it, too. I wondered if Tyler had guests. And how often.

  And how female.

  I brushed my teeth, wanting to get rid of that choco-cheese taste that lingered on my tongue. Once I’d finished up, I went into my room to resume unpacking. I’d made a lot of headway, but I still needed to get the rest of the boxes emptied.

  I quickly lost track of time, humming to myself as I worked.

  Pigeon started barking. I didn’t know what to make of that. Tyler had never mentioned what it meant if she barked. Did that mean she needed to go outside?

  I came out to investigate. “Hey girl, what do you . . .” My voice trailed off as I took in the state of the kitchen. Massive white bubbles covered the entire floor, growing into a mountain that was already countertop height.

  I gasped. Oh no! I’d turned Tyler’s kitchen into a three-year-old’s outdoor summer birthday party!

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Pigeon stood in the dining room, yelping at the bubble mound.

  Quickly realizing the dishwasher was the culprit, I ran over and opened the door. I was hit with a blast of hot steam and more bubbles poured out.

  But at least they stopped reproducing.

  I went to the linen closet and started grabbing towels. I didn’t know how else to clean up that many bubbles.

  “Pigeon! Please keep out of the kitchen!” I knew she wouldn’t understand me, but I needed her to not go in there and add to the mess. I had zero idea how to wash a bubble-covered dog.

  Fortunately, she stayed put and watched me as I laid down a barrier of towels between the kitchen and the dining room. While I thought the tile in the kitchen would survive the bubbles, I was afraid the hardwoods in the rest of the penthouse might not.

  It took some problem-solving, but I figured out to wet the towels to mop up the bubbles. After I’d cleaned the floor, I piled the wet and dry towels on the counter. I was going to have to wash them. Fortunately, laundry was one of the things I actually knew how to do. While living with Shay I’d figured it out through trial and error and had lost / permanently damaged only a handful of items. (Apparently the ones with tags marked “dry cleaning only” were not just suggestions.)

  Pigeon observed me silently as I took my pile to the stackable washer and dryer located next to my bathroom. I decided to do a rinse cycle and then wash them. I then grabbed my phone to figure out where I’d gone wrong. Turned out only dishwasher soap should go in the dishwasher. Which was different from dishwashing liquid. And there were also handy directions on how to clean soap out of a dishwasher when you used the wrong kind.

  Feeling reassured that I wasn’t the only one who’d ever done this, I pulled all the dishes out of the dishwasher. When I got to the bottom rack, I noticed that the heavy pan I’d placed in there looked . . . rusted.

  I finally gave in and called Shay. I explained what had happened, and after she stopped laughing she told me to send her a picture of the pan in question.

  “You put his cast-iron pan in the dishwasher?” she shrieked when my text arrived.

  “Is that bad?”

  “So bad! I mean, there’s things you can do to try and fix it once you’ve rusted it up like that, but if you don’t want him to know . . .”

  “I definitely don’t want him to know.” I’d been at his place for twenty-four hours and I was already destroying his property. This did not bode well.

  “Then I think you’re better off buying him a new one. When you do, watch a video on how to take care of it. They’re not like regular pans.”

  “Why would someone buy something you couldn’t put in a dishwasher?” I asked.

  “Because it cooks certain foods so much better. It’s one of those things where if I have to explain it to you, you’re not going to get it. But time to replace that sucker. And make sure you season it.”

  She hung up before I could ask her what seasoning it meant. Time to do more research.

  I looked his pan up on Amazon. I gasped when I saw how much it cost. “Why would anyone spend this much on a pan that, I repeat, you cannot put in a dishwasher?”

  Pigeon cocked her head at me.

  I’d put a self-ban on online shopping mainly because American Express had invited me to stop using their card.

  But desperate times and all that . . . I put the pan in my shopping cart and then entered my new address and my debit card information. The new pan was going to arrive in two days, which was plenty of time before Tyler was due back.

  Pigeon had continued to study me, keeping her distance. Was it an improvement that she was choosing to hang around me?

  “We just had our first adventure together,” I told her.

  She gave me a disdainful look and trotted off.

  I went back into the kitchen to finish properly cleaning out the dishwasher. I’d have to clean the floor next. My first night alone had been an unmitigated disaster, and instead of being able to save money, now I was going to have to spend what little I’d managed to save up to fix my mistake.

  Things had to get better from here on out.

  The next morning I took my aunt’s suggestion and checked out the local Ares dealership online. They had several cars that had (according to the internet) low miles for being only a year old. I went to my bank during lunch to see what I could afford. It was the same bank my parents used for both their personal and business needs, and when the manager offered me what sounded like a good car loan, I supposed he did so in order to make my parents happy. The payments sounded doable as long as I stopped ordering food in and actually learned how to cook and shop for groceries, but that was a compromise I was willing to make for more independence.

  When Delia dropped me off at my apartment, I gave her gas money, as I typic
ally did at the end of the week.

  “This will be the last time,” I told her. “Come tomorrow, I’m going to be a proud car owner.”

  “Good for you,” was what she said, but she had that I’ll-believe-it-when-I-see-it look in her eyes. “Do you need a ride to the dealership?”

  “No, Shay is going to take me and make sure I don’t get ripped off.” It was something I hadn’t thought much about until the internet repeatedly warned me that all car salesmen were looking to scam unsuspecting female buyers.

  We waved goodbye, and as I headed inside, I checked my phone to make sure the car I wanted was still on the lot. It was a cute little black Honda. I figured my best defense would be a good offense, so I learned everything I could about the car. The blue book value, how much the dealership had marked it up, what I should offer them. Shay would be there to support me, but I was determined that I would be the one making the deal.

  Owning a car had become an important symbol for me, maybe even more so than the apartment. It was proof that I could make my own way in the real world, something my mother had accused me of being unable to do, and that I had the ability to provide for myself. A car meant freedom and total independence. I could load it up and go anywhere I wanted. Not that I would, because I had to keep my job to pay for said car, but it was the principle of the thing. In knowing I could.

  Not only was it Buying My Own Car Eve, it was also the day Tyler got back from New York. I was excited to see him again. Once I got inside the lobby, Gerald called me over to give me a package. It was the replacement pan, a day late. I was relieved it had finally arrived, and since I’d watched two videos on how to take care of a new cast-iron pan, I was set.

  Hopefully Tyler wouldn’t notice.

  I mentally reviewed the list of what I had to do that evening. What I wanted to do was to not have to clean or cook at all but to have a hot bath with a glass of wine and then maybe the whole bottle of wine while I binge-watched some television and ate chocolate ice cream.