by L.H. Cosway
Out of nowhere, she asked, “When it felt good, was it better than normal sex?”
I sighed, tired of this subject. “No. Not better. But less . . .”
“Less?”
“There’s nothing wrong with what we did. Boundaries are established ahead of time, consent is explicit, the rules are clear. No chance for anyone to get hurt or disappointed as long as they follow the rules, and no one is exploited. Aideen didn’t follow the rules, and that’s on her.”
Josey and I stared at each other, and I sensed she was waiting for me to continue. I didn’t. Because that was the reason I’d become a voyeur: the lack of exploitation, the rules, the clear expectations, explicit consent, and the minimal chances of anyone getting hurt.
“And?” she prompted after a time, her dark eyebrows lifting over her blue eyes.
“And, that’s it.”
Josey stared at me. Then her fingers came to her temples. “I’m confused. Let’s back up. You just stated that watching people doesn’t feel as good as . . . you know. So, you watch people instead because?”
“No one gets hurt.” Or, no one should get hurt, as long as they stick to the rules. I grabbed our plates and stood from the kitchen table, making my way to the sink. I sensed her eyes on my back as I washed the dishes and placed the plates on a towel to dry.
“No one gets hurt,” she echoed, like the words were a riddle.
Finished, I wiped my hands on a towel while glancing around the kitchen, making sure all the food was put away, the counters were wiped down, and everything was clean.
“No one gets hurt . . .” she repeated again, her tone distracted.
“Goodnight.” I hung the towel on the rung of the stove, intent on my room and the book waiting for me on my e-reader.
“Oh!” At the sound of my departure, Josey jumped to her feet. “I’m sorry. Was I being rude? Please accept my apology.”
“No.”
“You don’t accept my apology?” She lifted an eyebrow, her voice pitching higher with what sounded like worry.
I crossed my arms, but didn’t catch my small smile in time. She was really cute sometimes.
“No, you weren’t being rude. No need to apologize.”
Josey breathed out, apparently relieved. “Oh. Good. Because, again, I’m not a judger, not about things like this. I mean, I might judge a person for standing on the wrong side of an escalator and blocking people from moving past, or playing their music too loud on their headphones—because that can’t lead anywhere good—unless you consider an audiology appointment good.” She smiled and laughed, punctuating the musical sound with a snort.
The dog she called Rocky lifted his head at the noise, coming to attention, and then huffed a snort of his own in a sort of snort-ish solidarity. Josey beamed at him, then looked back to me.
Returning her smile with a closed-lipped one of my own, I tilted my head toward the hall and said again. “Goodnight.”
“Oh. Yes. Of course. Goodnight”—she stepped forward and tapped my shoulder lightly with her closed fist, and then backed away—“roomie. Goodness, I like the sound of that. ‘My roommate and I share a flat. I share a flat with a roommate. I am the varlet to his voyeur. Huh, that has a nice ring to it,” she went on as though talking only to herself. “The voyeur’s varlet.”
I gave a quizzical look. “Varlet?”
She appeared sheepish. “Right, sorry. I’m sort of obsessed with old forgotten English words that aren’t used anymore. My dad and I like to find new ones and exchange them with one another. We call it Forgotten Old Word of the Day. A varlet is what they used to call an attendant, which is kind of what I am to you, in a sense. I’m here to attend to you. Well, actually, a varlet was usually a young boy, but when I cut my hair a couple of years ago my neighbor told me I looked like a boy, so it could apply.”
She seemed to think on that for a moment and then tilted her head to one side. “Although, I guess I could also be considered the voyeur, since my job—technically—is to watch you, which makes me a voyeur. And the newspapers might call you a varlet because the second dictionary form for the word is a dishonest or unprincipled man. . .”
She trailed off when she noticed how I stared at her, captivated by her rambling and the openness in her expression. Her smile waned.
“For the record, I don’t think you’re a varlet.” Her look and tone were earnest. “You’re no varlet.”
I continued watching her, having nothing to say to that. Plus, I liked watching her. She had very . . . interesting facial expressions.
“What?” Her eyes narrowed and the back of her hand came to her chin and she wiped. “Do I have pie on my face?”
“No.” I shook my head and moved around her to the hall. “You’re right, it does have a nice ring to it, and thank you for teaching me a new word. I hadn’t heard that one before. See you tomorrow.”
“Yes. Tomorrow. See you then,” she called after me, her tone friendly but also with an edge of doubt.
As I walked to my room and shut the door, I decided something would have to be done about her uncertainty. She seemed to always be ready to apologize, to second guess herself. That was unfortunate. Josey was just fine the way she was, and I wasn’t the only one who thought so.
That dog.
I pulled off my shirt, tossing it into the hamper in the corner of my room. I placed my phone on my bedside table, and then my pants followed my shirt into the laundry, and then my boxers.
The way she looks at that dog.
Grabbing my e-reader from the nightstand, I reclined on my bed and turned on the device, staring without reading the first sentence on the page.
A few moments passed, maybe more, before I was pulled out of my unfocused thoughts by the chime of my cell. Glancing at the screen, I read the message.
Bryan: It’s not too late to change your mind.
I picked up the cell and typed out a quick response.
Will: I’m not going to change my mind.
Not a minute later, he responded.
Bryan: Tomorrow isn’t too late either. Nor is next week, or next month.
* * *
Will: It’s not going to happen. She’s exactly what I need.
* * *
Bryan: Is she really, though?
I thought about that, endeavoring to pinpoint exactly how to express why I had such confidence in the arrangement, even after knowing her for such a short time.
Bryan: Sometimes you’re too nice for your own good. Just say the word and I’ll come up with a rescue plan.
* * *
Bryan: It’s the least I can do after what you did for me.
* * *
Bryan: I’ve been plagued with guilt.
* * *
Will: She reminds me of my brother.
* * *
Bryan’s response took a bit longer this time, but he did eventually respond.
* * *
Bryan: She’s like having one of the lads around?
* * *
His statement wasn’t precisely right. Regardless, I replied.
* * *
Will: More or less.
That made me smile. All his complaints sounded like a welcome respite from the deafening silence of the last several months. Since the O’Farrells had left and moved to Galway, and yet again since Bryan had moved out, my apartment had been empty in a way that seemed like a permanent abyss rather than just temporarily vacant.
Bryan: She’s not driving you crazy yet with her constant talking? She talks to herself, and hums when she does housework, and sings when she takes showers.
* * *
Will: Don’t care.
* * *
Bryan: She also has no comprehension of social rules, does weird shit and doesn’t realize it.
* * *
Will: Don’t care.
* * *
Bryan: She acts and speaks without thinking.
* * *
Will: Don’t care.
* * *
Bryan: Okay. Fine. But don’t say you haven’t been warned.
* * *
Will: I’ve been warned.
* * *
Bryan: When she eventually does something completely outrageous and you’re pushed over the edge, give me a call.
I thought he was finished, and I moved to place the phone back on the nightstand, but then he messaged one last time.
Bryan: Trust me, it’s only a matter of time.
I was having a shitty day.
Practice did not go well. Sean Cassidy, who was set to retire by the end of the year, had been up my ass, complaining about my break speed from the scrum, complaining about turnovers in the ruck. I wasn’t disturbing the opposition’s ball, I wasn’t putting pressure on the breakdowns, I wasn’t attacking the backline. He’d been in my face all fucking day, and I was beat.
After practice, after a lukewarm shower and an awkward check-in with Coach Brian, during one of my first Sean Cassidy-free moments, I’d checked my email and received the message I’d been dreading, the one I was hoping wouldn’t come.
Wishful thinking.
To: William Moore
From: Stephanie MacBride
Re: The Dream Foundation
Mr. Moore,
On behalf of the Dream Foundation, we would like to thank you for your continued support of our organization, and express how much we appreciate all the hours and energy you’ve volunteered over the years. Most especially, the Monday and Wednesday evenings you’ve spent tutoring the at-risk-youth cohorts and your leadership during the youth rugby camps. We know your time commitment has been substantial as have your monetary gifts. Again, we thank you.
However, it is with a heavy heart that we hope you will understand the impossible situation before us. Due to recent events, the board believes the time has come for you to sever ties with our organization. Our programs are meant to serve disadvantaged and neglected youth, not exploit them. As such, a continuation of your partnership with our organization is no longer possible.
Again, we sincerely thank you for your dedication to our cause and wish you the best in all your future endeavors.
Stephanie MacBride
Director of Operations, The Dream Foundation
* * *
Though I was mobbed by the media as I left work, and again when I arrived home, I felt nothing but numb.
I thought this would blow over. I should have known better. This nightmare with the news and paparazzi—less than a week old—already felt never-ending. Instead of heading to The Dream Foundation for after school tutoring hours, my usual practice on Mondays, I went home and tried my best not to think too much about it.
Which meant all I did was think about it, about the kids who would wonder where I was and when I would be coming back.
Fuck.
See? Shitty day.
And now, at present, at the end of this shitty day, I stood rooted in the entryway to the kitchen, faced with the fact that Josey Kavanagh was definitely not one of the lads. A reality difficult to ignore as I watched her dump bag after bag of tampons into a pile on my kitchen counter.
There must’ve been twenty boxes.
I knew what they were only because it said so right on the box in big pink and black letters. All capitalized. Like they were shouting TAMPONS at any innocent passerby. I’d never seen a tampon in person before, only on television commercials. So I stared, frozen in place, not knowing what to do, hoping I wouldn’t be seeing one now.
There was enough to keep five vaginas in business, never mind one.
It was only three days after she’d moved in, and the first night she’d come home late. I knew she had her internship on Mondays. Afterward, she said she’d be stopping by the store, so I hadn’t been concerned. But I had stayed up, planning to help her bring in the groceries.
Josey glanced up as she dumped the final bag onto the counter—again, nothing but tampons—and gave me a welcoming smile. “Well, hello there, Will. I didn’t expect you to still be up. Guess what? You know my internship at the animal shelter? Well, they’ve decided to bring me on to a paid position!”
“That’s great.” I was happy for her, I absolutely was. But, things being as they were, my happiness for her did not eclipse the distress of being faced with . . . so many tampons.
“I know, right? And it pays well, as much as a veterinary tech. And I’ll be interacting with people. How are you?”
I was about to answer, lie and say I was fine, but then Josey ripped open one of the boxes and I choked quietly on air and embarrassment.
Oh God. She’s not going to . . . I braced myself. She wouldn’t . . . right here. . . in the kitchen, would she? My stare jumped between her and the now open box. I wasn’t embarrassed by much, but apparently, I was embarrassed by the idea of my new roommate inserting a tampon in the middle of the kitchen.
And wouldn’t that be the perfect end to the day? A crash-course in reproductive hygiene. On any other day, I might have taken it in stride. But not today.
Unbidden, I thought back to Bryan’s warnings about her, about how he said she was unpredictable and didn’t navigate social situations very well. Up until now, I’d assumed he was overexaggerating.
Josey lifted an eyebrow, her grin diminishing but not quite disappearing. “Is something wrong?” She dumped the contents of the box into one of the now empty bags, effectively making it rain tampons.
“No,” I said, shoving my hands into my pockets, releasing a relieved breath. Nothing was wrong. I’d jumped to the wrong conclusion. Josey wasn’t going to use one, she was dumping them into the bag.
Everything was fine.
Bryan had been wrong.
She wasn’t a ticking time bomb of outrageous behavior.
But Bryan had been right about everything else: Josey wasn’t quiet. When home, she was always talking to herself, or to her dog, or reading her textbooks out loud, or singing to no one. But that all suited me fine. She filled the apartment with her happy, distracted sounds.
Glancing down at the mountain of boxes she’d created, she picked up another one and ripped it open. “Boots was having a sale.” She said this like she was excited, and I should be too. “They’re never on sale. Buy one get one, or BOGO, as the kids call it. Best day ever!” Josey laughed, but then abruptly stopped and cleared her throat as she dumped the contents of the second box into the waiting bag. “Anyway, how was your day?”
“Are there any more groceries to bring up?” My voice was tight, so I cleared my throat, my attention shifting to beyond her, hopeful I’d be able to escape the scene of flying feminine hygiene products by making myself useful.
“Nope. This is it.”
My eyes came back to her and I saw her swallow, a light pink stain covering her high cheekbones as she reached for another box, opened it, and continued her dumping.
In a low voice she added, “I honestly thought you’d be asleep.”
She was now avoiding my gaze
I mentally cursed myself—and Bryan—because, clearly, I’d made her uncomfortable.
Finally, feeling like an ass, I took a step forward. “I waited up. I wanted to help you bring up the groceries.” And make sure you got home safely.
“Oh.” She swallowed again, her attention affixed to her progress of opening boxes and emptying them into the bag. “Well, tampons are very light, so I had no problem carrying the bags. I wouldn’t usually buy so many, but these are never on sale, and they’re the ones I prefer because they’re—” she scrunched her face, cutting herself off, her cheeks burning a new, deeper pink.
“Anyway,” she started again, “I’ll be finished in a moment. The boxes are just too bulky, so I keep them in a bag instead. It takes up a lot less room, then I can recycle all the boxes at once. It just makes things easier. Once I’m finished, I need to take a shower, and then I need to sleep because I have a test on Thursday, so all day tomorrow will be spent at the library.”
“The library.” I ventur
ed further into the kitchen, my hands still in my pockets, feeling ashamed of myself. Josey had been nothing but kind and generous since she’d moved in, upbeat and positive.
She wasn’t crazy, she was kind. She wasn’t nutty, she was naïve, trusting. There was absolutely nothing wrong with Josey, and I silently promised I’d never let Bryan—or anyone else—plant seeds of doubt about her again.
“Yes. The library. It’s one of my favorite places.” Her tone was firm and she’d angled her chin, giving me the impression she was expecting me to say something critical.
“Why is it one of your favorite places?”
Her gaze flickered to mine, and then back to her progress. “Because no one is allowed to talk.”
Despite myself, despite the shitty day, I felt the corner of my mouth curve. “You like going someplace where no one can talk?”
“Yes.” Her eyes narrowed, her mouth formed a pucker. On anyone else, the line of her lips would look pinched, but not on her. Her mouth was too wide, her lips too big.
Not liking her posture, or how succinct her last response had been, I made a decision. I’d been the jerk, acting like an adolescent, making her feel uncomfortable. It was up to me to make things right. Taking a deep breath, I closed the rest of the distance to the kitchen counter, picked up one of the boxes labeled TAMPONS and ripped it open.
