by Rosie Danan
“Somehow I don’t think hearing about my job would reassure you.” He took a long sip from her discarded can.
Guess that answered the question of whether Josh was the kind of roommate who would eat her leftovers. “You’re not a mortician, are you?”
He shook his head. “I work in the entertainment industry.”
Figures. Clara immediately lost interest. The last thing she needed was some wannabe filmmaker asking her to read his screenplay.
Josh gave her a blatant once-over. “You’re not what I expected.”
Well, that makes two of us, buddy.
She’d expected to live with Everett. She’d pictured the two of them cooking dinners together, their shoulders touching as they worked side by side. She’d imagined watching action movies deep into the night like they did back when they were thirteen, only this time instead of separate sofas they’d curl up together under a shared blanket with glasses of wine.
This house should have set the scene for their love story. Everett should have written a song in that window seat inspired by their first kiss.
Instead, she got to share a toilet with a stranger.
Clara stood up and shook off her unfulfilled wishes. “What do you mean?”
“I’m surprised a girl like you”—he gestured to her Louis Vuitton luggage—“would slum it with a roommate in a place like this.”
Clara gathered her dark hair over one shoulder and smoothed the tresses. “I received the luggage as a gift from my grandmother.” She lowered her eyes to the carpet. “I took the room because I’m between jobs at the moment.” The lie sat sour on her tongue and she quickly swerved back into truth territory. “I’ve known Everett forever. When I graduated a few weeks ago he offered me his spare room.”
“Oh. A graduate, huh? What were you studying?”
“I recently completed my doctorate in art history,” she said with as much bravado as she could muster. As a kid, she’d dreamed about making work of her own, but eventually, she’d realized art required exposing parts of herself she’d rather keep hidden—her hopes and fears, her passions and yearning. Analysis and curation let her keep art at arm’s length while using school as a way to extend the exit ramp to adulthood.
Josh smirked. “Is that like a special degree they only give out to rich people?”
Clara ground her teeth so hard she thought she heard a pop. “Let’s keep the interpersonal chitchat to a minimum, shall we?”
She grabbed her purse and hunted for her move-in checklist, finding it buried underneath her airplane pillow and first-aid kit. Clara had compiled the six-page document to include all manner of questions and instructions on what to look for to know whether a new home was up to code in Los Angeles. Holding the document made breathing a little easier.
When she looked up, Josh hadn’t left. “Please don’t take this the wrong way, but frankly, Everett didn’t tell me he had to go out of town until right now, and no offense, I’m sure you’re probably nice, but this”—she gestured to the space between them—“falls a little outside my comfort zone.”
“Hey, me too.” He put his hand to his heart. “I’ve seen a lot of made-for-TV movies, you know. You’re exactly the kind of pint-sized, tightly wound socialite who goes crazy and paints the walls with chicken blood. How do I know I’m safe from you?”
Clara cocked her hip and stared at the over-six-foot man across from her. His threadbare T-shirt, featuring a vintage picture of Debbie Harry, barely obscured his muscular chest and broad shoulders. “You’re honestly worried about me?”
His eyes sank to the move-in checklist in her hand. “Oh my God. Is that laminated?” He looked positively delighted.
“My mother got me a machine last Christmas,” she told him defensively as he took it from her for further inspection. “It prevents smudging.”
He pitched his head back and laughed. A loud rumble without a trace of mocking in it. “‘Check the water pressure on all taps for inconsistency,’” he read from the sheet. “This is too good. Did you write this yourself?”
“California is known for its propensity toward forest fires. You have to document pre-move-in conditions to arm yourself for possible insurance claims. The smoke damage alone—”
He laughed some more in what she deemed a rather overblown display of mirth.
Clara snatched back the sheet. “Should we discuss some house rules?”
Josh’s eyes twinkled. “Like no parties on school nights?”
“You’re right. Rules sounds a bit aggressive. I’m thinking more along the lines of guidelines for harmonious cohabitation. We might as well make the best of a bad situation.”
Josh straightened up. “Of course. I’m afraid you’ll need to make the first rule, though. I’m out of practice.”
“Well, for instance, Everett mentioned a while back that the lock on the bathroom door doesn’t work. So until we can have that fixed, I suggest we employ a three-knock strategy.”
“Why three?”
“It would be easy to miss one or two knocks . . .” She spoke to the beat-up coffee table. “If you were in the shower, for example.”
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, certainly.”
She looked up to find his whole body changed with the tilt of his lips. Goose bumps broke out across Clara’s arms despite the balmy June afternoon. Josh had some kind of magnetism she hadn’t noticed before. Even when she went and stood behind the couch, putting a physical barrier between them, her body hummed closer, closer, closer.
“Hey, listen. You don’t need to guard your virtue from me, okay?” Josh dropped the charm like someone shrugging out of a jacket. He must have noticed that the energy between them had shifted from playful to something meatier.
“I’m taken, so you’ve got nothing to worry about. I’m only living here until I can convince my ex-girlfriend to let me move back in. She’s a tough nut, but I’m sure I’ll be able to wear her down in a week or two, and then I’ll be out of your hair for good.” He broke the news in the practiced gentle tone of someone used to getting people’s hopes up and having to let them down easy.
“Oh,” Clara said, and then as she caught his meaning, “No.” She crossed her hands in an X. He had the wrong idea. Obviously. She wanted Everett. Had loved him almost as long as she could remember. She didn’t even know this guy with his ripped jeans and his bedhead. “Of course not. I didn’t think that you’d want to . . .” She waved a hand down her body and stuck out her tongue in disgust.
His eyes followed the path she’d tracked. “Wait a second. I didn’t mean I wouldn’t want to under different circumstances. You’re very . . .” He held his hands out in front of his chest like he was assessing the weight of a pair of overripe melons.
Clara’s eyes went wide.
“Oh God. I can’t believe I did that. I’m sorry. I just meant that you . . . um . . . what’s a respectful way to say . . .” He put his hands back up.
Blood rushed to her face. “I got it.”
“Right. Sorry. Again.” He shook his whole body like a wet dog. “Besides, I thought for sure you and Everett were a thing. The way he talked about you, it definitely sounded like you two had history.”
At the mention of her beloved, the faded bruises on her heart bloomed anew and throbbed. She didn’t know how much to share without seeming pathetic. She and Everett certainly had history, even if the romantic part was one-sided.
Something in the earnest set of Josh’s brows gave Clara the impression he could handle more than the sugarcoated version of her past with Everett—more than the BS stories she’d given her friends and family back east, so they wouldn’t judge her or worry about her rash decision to up and move.
For some reason, she found herself spilling her guts to this unkempt stranger. “Everett and I grew up together. Despite living on different coasts for almost ten years, we’ve kept
in touch with phone calls and visits. I don’t know if you got to know him at all, but he’s this amazing mix of sweet and smart and funny—”
“And he encouraged you to drop everything and move out here only to abandon you the first chance he got?” Josh arched an eyebrow.
Clara took a step back. The truth stung. “That’s not exactly what happened. I know how this looks.” She lowered her voice, embarrassed at how she’d let it climb in volume. “But when Everett called a couple of weeks ago and painted this picture of life in L.A., all sunsets and ocean air and people who don’t have to wear mouth guards at night because they can’t stop stress-grinding their teeth . . .”
A dimple appeared in Josh’s left cheek.
“I know it sounds stupid, but it seemed like a sign or something. This felt like my chance. At love, adventure, happily ever after, the whole Hallmark thing.”
“Let me get this straight. You, a woman who created a laminated move-in checklist, made a huge life-altering decision based on a hazy sign from the universe?”
Clara shrugged. “Haven’t you ever done something stupid to impress someone you liked?”
Josh plopped down on the sofa, propped his feet on the coffee table, and crossed them at the ankles. “No. Never.”
“I think you mean ‘Not yet.’” Clara grabbed the handles of her rolling suitcases. “So which one of these bedrooms is mine?”
chapter two
BY THE NEXT morning, Clara had managed to maroon herself among a sea of her possessions. Having covered the majority of the floor space in her new bedroom, she now stood on the wooden desk chair trying to decide where to begin.
Unpacking was supposed to make her feel better. More settled. She’d read that in a study on how humans adjust to new environments.
But she’d checked half a suitcase with mementos to share with Everett, and now, laid out in all their faded, adolescent glory, the memories took turns punching her in the stomach.
Curling photo booth strips, the sagging cardboard box from their sad attempt at making their own board game in the seventh grade, even a Ziploc of their favorite hometown bagels—formerly frozen—currently dripping all over her bathrobe.
Everything hurt. Clara dropped her chin to her chest.
A single knock sounded on the door behind her.
“Come in.” The chaos on the carpet mirrored the mess she’d made of her life. How poetic.
“How’s the unpacking going?” Josh offered her a chipped mug full of steaming coffee.
Clara created a visor with her hand and turned away, but not before she got an eyeful confirming that Josh’s happy trail matched his dark brown eyebrows rather than the blond curls on his head. “What the hell are you doing?”
“I kept hearing these sad little sighs from the hallway. I thought coffee might cheer you up.” He surveyed her perch. “Did you climb on that chair to avoid a spider?”
Clara stepped carefully down. “You’re not wearing enough clothes.” She closed her eyes, but the lean muscles of his bare chest had imprinted on her retinas.
“What do you mean?”
“Didn’t you see the list of rules I slipped under your door last night?” She’d spent an hour and a half after dinner writing out provisions on college-ruled paper. She’d even included designated spaces for both of their signatures.
“I thought you said they were guidelines?”
“They are guidelines.” She tried to weave patience into her tone. “And the guidelines say all parties must wear at least three pieces of clothing when entering public areas of the house and/or during direct interaction with another roommate and/or guests.”
Josh stared down at his bare feet. “What about socks?”
“What do you mean, ‘What about socks’?”
“Do they count as one item of clothing or two?”
Clara placed her hands on her hips. “Socks don’t count.”
He sucked in air between his teeth. “Unfortunately, that’s unclear in the literature.”
“A sock is a nonessential clothing item.”
Mischief entered his gaze. “Only until you’re playing strip poker.”
“Thank you for bringing me coffee.” Clara accepted the mug mostly so he’d stop talking.
“No problem. I didn’t know how you take it . . . but we also don’t have any cream. Or sugar.” He grimaced. “But listen, I’ll take you to the grocery store as soon as you’re done . . .” His eyes tracked the mess she’d made of the bedroom. “. . . redecorating.”
Tired of making eye contact with his dusting of golden chest hair, Clara grabbed the first piece of clothing she could find—a huge old sweatshirt strewn across the back of the desk chair—and threw it with her free hand toward his rippling pectorals.
While he pulled it on, she went to grab his copy of the guidelines.
As soon as she entered the master bedroom, Clara had to force herself not to look at the bed. Everett’s bed. The pillow probably still smelled like him. She took a surreptitious sniff from the doorway. Yep, this whole room smelled like Everett. Irish Spring and the vinyl of hundreds of records.
She shook her head and scanned for notebook paper, finally spotting her draft on the nightstand. Josh had already managed to spill coffee on the corner of the document. If only she’d thought to pack her laminating equipment.
By the time she returned to her room, Josh had managed to cover himself. The sleeves of her Columbia hoodie ended at his elbows. She refused to find him charming.
“I figured you made those as a jumping-off point.” He pointed at her sheet. “We should collaborate on the final copy, no?” The struggle with the sweatshirt had aggravated his already disheveled hair.
An unwelcome image of him, tangled in sheets warm from his body heat, floated across her mind. She took a big gulp of coffee, using the bitter taste to rid herself of the unsettling vision. “Oh, sure.” She handed over the paper. Frankly, she’d assumed he wouldn’t care enough to fight her on any of the line items.
Josh sank onto her bed and reached into his wild nest of hair. From somewhere within the depths of his mane, he uncovered a pair of horn-rimmed glasses and put them on.
“Some of the stuff you’ve got here works.”
Clara bit the inside of her cheek. Josh packed a powerful punch of allure to begin with, but her inner nerd started panting at the sight of him with readers.
“Splitting utilities. Fine. A chart outlining weekly cleaning responsibilities. Very organized. We’ll need to pick up some of these supplies you listed. I don’t think we’ve got organic furniture polish.” His tongue peeked out between his teeth as he scanned the rest of the page, giving the occasional nod. “I see you’ve entrusted me with changing lightbulbs.”
Josh glanced over to where she stood, awkwardly lingering by the doorway, and gave her short frame a once-over. “Makes sense.”
He flipped the sheet. “Quiet hours from midnight to five a.m. Okay. That’s reasonable . . . but you’re missing a bunch of stuff.”
Clara folded her arms. “Like what?”
“Like sex.”
Her pulse broke into a gallop. “What do you mean?”
“Well, what’s the plan if we’re . . . you know.” He made a pumping motion with his fist.
Clara swallowed the lump in her throat. “You mean like a scrunchie on the doorknob?”
His eyebrows shot to his hairline. “What the fuck is a scrunchie?”
In answer, she retrieved one from her makeup bag and flung it at him like a slingshot.
He caught the soft material in front of his chest and tested the hair tie’s durability between his fingers.
Clara averted her eyes again. So he has nice hands. Big whoop. “Haven’t you ever seen an eighties sex comedy?”
“Oh, I see,” Josh said. “I thought they used tube socks.”
“Maybe guys use tube socks. Let’s assume any item decorating the doorknob means do not disturb.” Normally she would have fought against a tacky dorm room signal, but she figured her lack of a sex life would keep her from having to employ this particular rule.
“Okay. That’s cool. Although I’ve gotta warn you, these walls are thin. When I moved in on Sunday, I could hear Everett and the manic pixie dream girl he brought home going at it like I had a front-row ticket.”
Clara inhaled sharply. Of course, she knew Everett hadn’t been celibate for the last ten years, but she hadn’t had cause to picture him with other women . . . and in the bed she had slept in last night. Could she get away with burning the sheets if she replaced them?
“Oh. Shit, I’m sorry,” Josh said.
She must have made a face. Clara quickly schooled her features back to calm.
“If it makes you feel better, she made this super annoying screeching sound when she came.”
Clara fought the urge to gag. “Let’s move on.”
Josh squinted at the ceiling. “Hmm.” He snapped his fingers. “What are you afraid of?”
“Excuse me?”
“Like if you’re afraid of snakes or big dogs or cotton balls, I should know so I can protect you.”
She squinted. “You realize one of those things is not like the others?”
“What about mice, cockroaches, opossums?”
“Exactly how many kinds of vermin do you think live here?”
Josh rolled his shoulders. “I’m trying to prepare myself, as your roommate.”
Clara saw his point. She stared at the carpet. “I’m afraid of driving.”
“But . . . you moved to L.A.?”
Her cheeks grew hot. “Yes. It’s all very stupid. I’ve ruined my life. What are you afraid of?” Her glare, warding off further questioning, must have worked.
Josh grimaced. “Ketchup.”
“You don’t like ketchup?”
