Roommaid

by Sariah Wilson

  “I’m a . . . what’s the word? Troglodyte? Philistine? Because I don’t get any of this. I feel like I’m missing something.”

  “You don’t have to get them,” I explained. “In fact, I think the mystery of not knowing what the artist was thinking makes it more of a challenge. Where you get to decide the outcome and how you feel about it. I think the great thing about abstract art is that there are no rules. It’s all about freedom of expression.”

  “If you say so.”

  I giggled at his frown. “It’s not that bad. Like this one. I love that the splotches of colors are so vibrant and happy. What do you think?”

  “I don’t want to be that guy in the art museum, but I think this is . . . not all that impressive. If I’m being honest, it looks like the colors got drunk at a party, threw up, and then started procreating with the other colors in the room, creating color-spot babies and then they also threw up and this is the end result. It’s too bad we can’t talk about reality television at society functions. That I think I could do, and with conviction.”

  “Unfortunately, nobody here considers reality TV to be art, and you’re right, it’s not exactly something you can bring up with socialites at parties. Well, except for the ones that starred on Real Housewives.”

  “I don’t consider any of this art, either. I’m sorry. Am I being too blunt?” he asked as we started walking away from the color-vomit love-in painting.

  I found it refreshing, considering the other men in my life. “Your honesty is one of the things I like most about you.”

  “Oh yeah? What else do you like about me?” He sounded flirtatious, but I wasn’t sure if I was again projecting my own feelings onto him.

  And there were so many things I liked about him. His devotion to his dog, his kindness, his charm, his sense of humor, his intelligence, his thoughtfulness, the way he made everyday things seem like adventures. And then there was that thing where he was in possession of a face that would make an angel hurl herself from heaven just for the chance to be with him.

  None of which I could say. “I like that your name can’t be turned into a pun.”

  “That’s kind of a weird thing to like.”

  “You didn’t say it had to be normal.” We passed into another room and I said, “They do have a couple of Rothkos here.”

  We walked over to stand in front of one and Tyler said, “I hate to tell you, but they’re just rectangles of color. Again, I’m not getting it.”

  “Don’t worry about it. My guess is ninety-nine percent of people don’t, either, and just pretend they do. But in Rothko’s defense, one of his most famous paintings sold a few years ago at auction for over eighty million dollars.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “On purpose?”

  “On purpose.”

  “Miss Huntington?”

  I turned to see Mrs. Adams, the destroyer of souls and giver of pom materials, standing just behind me. “Mrs. Adams! How nice to see you. This is Tyler Roth.”

  They shook hands, exchanging pleasantries, and then Mrs. Adams asked, “How are the decorations coming along?”

  Ignoring the amused glint in Tyler’s eye, I said, “It’s . . . a process.” After my initial meeting with her and the headmistress, Delia and Shay mentioned that the Adamses were heavy-hitting donors for the academy and that it was in my best interests to smile and play nice.

  “Well, I’m so glad I ran into you because I’ve been meaning to call you. I don’t know if Ms. Gladwell mentioned it, but in addition to making the decorations we will also need you to hang them up.”

  Was she serious? Had I not already done my penance?

  When I didn’t respond, she just kept talking. “Feel free to bring your boyfriend here to help out. I’ll see you at the festival!”

  I tried to protest that he wasn’t my boyfriend, but she just wiggled her fingers at us and was gone.

  I had really thought that I was going to make the decorations and then pass them along to some other poor schmuck to take care of. I’d never considered the possibility that I’d be the poor schmuck.

  Tyler’s voice interrupted my woe-is-me train of thought. “I guess that makes it official. I’m going to help you hang up decorations at the winter festival.”

  The last thing I wanted was for him to feel obligated toward me. “You absolutely don’t have to.”

  “I was there when they were born. I feel like I should keep going on this journey with them, all the way to the end.”

  It made me feel better that I wasn’t in this mess alone. “Only if you really want to.”

  “Hanging up decorations in a school gym? Does it get more exciting than that?”

  I laughed softly and we walked over to another art piece that was bright red with various slivers of other colors showing through.

  He pointed at the canvas. “That kind of looks like the borscht Oksana made me, doesn’t it?”

  “A little.” Bringing her up made me wonder if he had someone else in his life that he hadn’t mentioned. I knew it wasn’t really my place to ask, but I had to find out the truth. It felt really important. “So I know Oksana’s not your girlfriend, but do you have a girlfriend? Or people that you’re dating?”

  “Not at the moment. Not for a long time, actually. I’ve been too busy. The only special lady I have time for in my life is Pigeon.”

  He flashed that megawatt grin of his at me and I pressed my arms against my sides so that I wouldn’t visibly react to his news. Because I wanted to jump up and down and that would get us thrown out of the art museum. Not to mention that he’d specifically said he was too busy to spend time with anyone yet that’s all we’d been doing recently. Spending time together. Was I becoming a little bit special to him, too?

  He walked over to a painting that was mostly yellow crescents and circles, making me think of bananas and lemons.

  Tyler doesn’t have a girlfriend, Tyler doesn’t have a girlfriend was on a singsong loop in my head, so I was startled when he said, “You’re stroking your purse.”

  “Am I?” I glanced down and my hand was on my bag. “Sorry, I just really love it.”

  “It’s a purse,” he repeated, as if I couldn’t possibly love an inanimate object.

  “It’s not a purse, it’s a Birkin bag.” I took it out only for special occasions like this one. I’d had more than one nightmare about what my second graders might “accidentally” do to it if I was ever foolish enough to bring it to school. “It’s a very special type of bag by a designer who made a limited edition a long time ago and my grandmother gave it to me when I graduated from college. It’s easily my most prized possession. You should have seen my mother’s face when—”

  I was cut off by the sight of my actual mother’s face. She was with my father talking to the mayor.

  This was the problem with society events. Society tended to show up.

  And I did not want to see or be snubbed by my parents. I didn’t want them to notice Tyler or have my two very separate worlds colliding. Because I knew they would automatically jump to the worst conclusion—that I was here with Tyler on a real date and at some point they would give me an earful over my “cheating on Brad and disgracing the family name.”

  Not only that, much as she hated making a scene, there was a very real possibility that my short, pink-clad mother would try to physically fight me to get this bag. I never took it anywhere that I thought she might be.

  I let out a little cough. “Hey, I’m suddenly not feeling all that great, could we go?”

  Tyler said yes so quickly that I felt guilty for not suggesting it sooner.

  When we got to the front of the building, he told me to stay put, that he’d get the car and bring it around. The museum had not provided valet service, something I’d overheard being repeatedly criticized. I believe the phrase “having to park like peasants” had been used.

  It was a little nerve-racking waiting for Tyler to come back. I was afraid with every moment that passed that my parents would
spot me and this evening would turn into a whole thing that I didn’t want to deal with.

  Fortunately, he drove up a minute later, opening my door from the inside.

  When I got in I said, “Thanks. You didn’t have to go get the car alone. I could have walked with you.”

  He pulled forward, making his way through the parking lot and back out to the main road. “You said you weren’t feeling well. I was happy to do it. Besides, what are friends for?”

  There it was. My daily reminder as to how he felt about me.

  But if he was trying to make sure we were only friends, he was failing pretty miserably. Because the more time I spent with him, the more I liked him.

  Before I went to bed for the evening, I’d put up a note on Tyler’s door (after our night that most definitely was not a date, especially considering that I’d ended up with a dog as my only sleeping companion) reminding him that we needed trash bags. I couldn’t help but add:

  Also, Pigeon says to tell you she loves me more.

  There was a reply from him on my door when I woke up the next morning. He said:

  Lies. Don’t try and brainwash my dog.

  My response?

  Too late. She has a deep and abiding love for Snausages and I’m the one who provides them.

  I went to work and started trying out the positive reinforcement plan. At first it felt unnatural for me to be constantly verbally praising the children for doing what I asked, but I could tell the kids weren’t sure what to think about it, either. But they quickly adapted and I saw that even Denny began to respond to it. I’d have to thank Tyler and his stepsister for the advice.

  Lunchtime I’d had to bail on my friends to go to the gym to get my cancellation straightened out. Shay was particularly displeased since she had wanted to go over my conversation / museum outing with Tyler minute by minute so that we could analyze everything he and I had said under a microscope.

  I wasn’t really in the mood. Or maybe it was the fact that I was spending so much time in my own head trying to uncover any possible subtext that I was tired of doing it and didn’t want to rehash the lies I kept telling myself and the truths Tyler kept forcing me to acknowledge.

  When I arrived at Standford Fitness and Training, I asked the woman at the front desk to please get the manager.

  “Is there anything I can help you with?” she asked.

  “Yes. You can get me the manager. That would be the most help.” I was being rude, which she let me know from her expression, but I wanted this to be over.

  She came back with a guy so buff I could barely see his neck. He shook my hand with a grip so hard he might have actually bruised some bones. He introduced himself as Billy. I explained the situation, including my financial hardships, and told him that I really needed my membership to be canceled.

  “Tell you what,” Billy said. “How about we sign you up for six more months at only half price. If you’re not happy then, we can reconsider.”

  Anger bubbled up inside me and I clenched my teeth together before saying, “Considering I’ve already paid you two years’ worth of membership fees for a gym I haven’t stepped foot in since I initially signed up, under duress, I might add, by a boyfriend whose idea of a good time is spending four hours looking at himself in mirrors while he works out, I think you probably owe me quite a bit more than six months at half price. I’m not interested in any specials or deals. I’m not going to change my mind. Can we please cancel this?” I was past being polite; I wanted it done.

  Billy must have recognized my determination, because he didn’t offer me any other deals and simply said, “I’ll get the paperwork.”

  And I decided no matter the outcome here, I was going to stop by my bank either today or tomorrow and get a new debit card that the gym wouldn’t have access to.

  It would be worth the hassle to know that this wouldn’t happen again.

  Speaking of things that wouldn’t happen again, I heard my name being called.

  It was Brad.

  This was the problem with Houston. It was supposed to be a big city, but it so often felt like a small town where I was constantly running (or almost running) into people I did not want to see.

  It looked like Brad had just finished his workout and showered, and was probably headed to his father’s offices. For his “job.”

  Since I was already on a canceling kick, I decided to add Brad to my list.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked. “Did you come to see me?”

  It was the delight in his voice that threw me. Like he was truly happy that I’d finally made the effort to come to his gym. But this place was another reminder as to why I needed to end things; we were not made to be together.

  Like, for example, Brad loathed television and spent all his time watching videos on social media.

  “I’m here to cancel my gym membership.” I hoped he caught my double meaning there, that by ending one thing having to do with him I was also planning on ending the relationship, but I figured it was probably too subtle. “Because I never wanted to be a member here.”

  “Sure.” He sounded disbelieving. “The same way our relationship is ‘over.’” He made air quotes and I had never wanted to punch somebody more.

  “It is over. I don’t know how else to explain it to you so that you’ll understand.” I wanted to tell him that I liked someone else so much more, but that would be humiliating if I was somehow forced to admit that Tyler didn’t like me back.

  He looked angry. “I told you I was waiting for you. That I could commit myself to you. What more do you want?”

  “Love? Respect? Fidelity? I’ll never have those things with you.”

  “Let’s go somewhere and talk about this,” he said. “Someplace private.”

  I really didn’t want to be alone and/or private with him. “I can’t. I have to get this membership thing straightened out and then I need to get back to work.”

  Anger flashed across his face before he said, “So skip work. Shouldn’t an eight-year relationship, shouldn’t I, be more important than your job?”

  He wasn’t. “I can’t just skip the rest of my day. People rely on me to show up and actually do my job. I don’t work for my daddy.”

  “Whose fault is that?” he asked. Before I could respond he said, “I suppose none of this really matters because you’ll quit once we get engaged.”

  I was so dumbfounded that it was several seconds before I regained my ability to speak. He was ridiculous and I knew, then and there, with a hundred percent certainty, that I was never ever going to marry Brad. And I couldn’t believe what he’d just said. He really thought he could make me stop working? If I’d been angry before, it was nothing compared to the total rage that threatened to consume me. My whole life my parents had tried to control me: what subjects I could study, who I was allowed to date and marry, where I could go to school, what kind of job I could have. I was so tired of other people assuming that they got to tell me how to run my life. Brad and I were never getting engaged or married. Was he delusional? “This is over. Please get that through your skull.”

  Before he could respond, we were interrupted by one of Brad’s best frat buddies, Chip. He was carrying a gym bag, which made me think they’d been working out together. Or trying to hit on women together, since Chip seemed to enjoy encouraging Brad to cheat. I’d never liked the guy and I suspected the feeling was totally mutual. “We need to go. Sorry, Madison. But we have plans. You know how it is.”

  Ha. Plans. I knew none of them would include Brad pretending to go to his job that his father provided, where he was paid an exorbitant salary and spent his days working out at the gym and playing Xbox and going clubbing with his idiot friends.

  When I looked at Brad, there was nothing left. No lingering feelings, no teenage part of me that still held out hope. It was really over. I realized that I didn’t respect Brad. I couldn’t respect a man who treated life as if he were still in college, content to let his parents pay for eve
rything so that he could prolong his adolescence. Who wasn’t passionate about anything besides himself.

  Unlike Tyler. Who came from nothing and through hard work and ambition had created a great life for himself.

  And who had helped me, someone who had been a virtual stranger to him. I couldn’t imagine Brad doing anything similar. He’d never done anything for anyone unless he benefited from it in some way.

  Then Billy was back with a manila file folder in his hands. “I have the paperwork ready for you to sign.”

  I turned my back on Brad and reached for the paperwork, ignoring him and Chip as they left.

  The only way to get him to stop and to leave me alone would be to tell my parents the truth.

  I had to stop putting it off.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The next few days passed by in a blur. Every evening, Tyler came home only a couple of hours after I did, making me think that his claims of always working long hours and being devoted only to his job seemed to not really be a thing. Because that wasn’t the reality that I was currently experiencing.

  He would make us dinner, I would clean it up. We would talk about our days. I told him how well his stepsister’s advice was working, and Denny was like his old self again (although we still had some issues). Tyler entertained me with the stories of the colorful potential clients who came through his door, wanting to work with him.

  Then we would retreat to the living room, where I would work on the winter festival decorations while watching television. He would either help me or do work on his laptop. I worried that the TV would distract him, but he said he didn’t mind.

  We were settling into a routine that was so comfortable and . . . homey.

  Tonight he was on his laptop while I watched an episode of Survivor and one of the particularly weaselly contestants reminded me of Brad. Which made me flash back to our last infuriating encounter. I paused my show.

  “Would you want your wife to work?” I asked.

  It was a weird question, but that didn’t seem to faze him. He paused whatever he was doing and said, “I don’t have a wife. I’m pretty sure you would have noticed by now if I had one.”