Roommate

by Sarina Bowen

  I’m not really drowsy, so I open my laptop and take a peek at the real estate on Craig’s List. There’s a section for “rooms available,” and I need to know what kinds of things people put in their listings.

  I read through them, and then make the mistake of glancing under the “looking for housing” heading. Right away, the newest listing catches my eye. Single guy looking to rent a room, hopefully close to Colebury. New in town, but with references. Employed full time with an early morning job. (But I will leave silently.) Clean and quiet. Gay AF. Available as soon as my first paycheck clears next Friday.

  Roderick. It has to be him. He’d told us that he had a place to stay. But it’s not true, is it? Ten bucks says that right now he’s sitting in his Volkswagen behind the yarn store.

  I close my laptop and put it on the floor. My new bedroom is at the back of the house, away from the streetlights, but the darkness won’t help me sleep tonight, not now that I suspect Roderick is sleeping in his car. It’s snowing, for fuck’s sake.

  He’s homeless. And, damn, I’m an asshole. I could have cost him his good, full-time job at the Busy Bean, just because I was uncomfortable with something I’d done in high school.

  I roll over. My bed is comfortable, but the house is too quiet. Every creak of the roof and tick of the heating system seems to echo inside my head. I always wanted to live alone, where I’d have space to breathe. I thought it would be easier to be myself.

  There’s plenty of space here now, isn’t there? And yet I’m the same screwed up person I was when I was living in the cramped little room in my parents’ house.

  Go figure.

  Roderick

  I have a job with nice people who do good work.

  I get to bake things for a living.

  Everything is going to be fine.

  These are the blessings I repeat to myself as the temperature drops. There are snowflakes falling on my windshield now, too. I can’t even see properly out the windows.

  I close my eyes and picture a comfortable bed, with a fluffy comforter and smooth sheets. But that only makes me think of our bed in Nashville, where Brian is probably right this moment. What’s in his head? I’d like to think he’s lying there missing me, but I know better. Because I hadn’t just caught him cheating, I’d caught him balls deep in a female fan, backstage at a concert he’d known I was attending.

  When I’d walked into his dressing room, he hadn’t even stopped the world’s oldest activity. He just looked over his shoulder at me with a red, angry face. I’d walked out, knowing he’d punished me on purpose.

  We’d had an argument that afternoon. I’d pressed him to consider coming out.

  “You know I can’t,” he’d said.

  “Why not? You have all the money you’ll ever need.”

  “It’s not just the money. It’s my career.”

  “You’re letting the fans rule your life.”

  “And you’re a needy little fuck.”

  I am, in fact, a needy little fuck. I need people to treat me like I matter, even when I haven’t stood up for myself.

  I’d already spent way too many months of my life expecting Brian to change for me. I’d known I was pushing him to the breaking point, but I hadn’t been able to stop myself.

  “We’ve been hiding ourselves for three years already,” I’d told him. “Like assholes. How does this end?”

  He’d answered that question quite effectively a few hours later. He hadn’t even had the decency to break up with me. He left me to gather up the tiny scraps of my remaining pride and make the decision myself.

  Brian is probably relieved, spread-eagle in our old bed, snoring happily right now. Meanwhile, I lie freezing in a car, a few miles from my childhood bedroom. It was my choice to come here. I should have called my parents before I pointed the car north, but I thought it would be harder to say no to me in person.

  Not so much, though. My parents are also toasty in a comfortable bed, unburdened by thoughts of me. I’ll bet they forgot about me as soon as my car left their driveway.

  I pinch my eyes closed against the unwelcome heat of sudden tears. Men aren’t supposed to cry. It’s part of the bro code. I press my thumb and forefinger into the corners of my eyes and take a deep breath.

  A car approaches, the low rumble of an engine accompanied by tires crunching on the gravel parking lot. Twin headlight beams flash, and I forget to breathe as a car door opens and footsteps approach.

  Knuckles rap on the front windshield, and my heart crawls into my mouth.

  “Hey, Roderick?” says a low voice. “You in there?”

  I let out a gasp. Who’s this intruder who knows my name?

  “Roderick,” he repeats. “Come on, man. Show me that you’re alive.”

  I’m startled to realize that the voice belongs to Kieran Shipley.

  “Dude.” He knocks again. “You’re in the back, right? Come on. It’s cold out here.”

  “You’re cold?” I sputter, throwing off the sleeping bag. “Don’t let me inconvenience you.”

  “Hey.” He tries the door handle, but of course it’s locked. “I wasn’t talking about me. I mean it’s too cold to sleep out here.”

  Isn’t this just mortifying? “I’ll be fine. Move along now. There’s nothing to see here.”

  I hear a loud thunk, and wonder for a moment if Kieran punched my car. But then I sit up and realize that sound was his forehead hitting the roof. His big farm-boy body has knocked the snow off one window, and is now bent into a defeated posture against my car.

  “Get out,” he says. “Come on. Take this address, okay? I have an extra room to rent. And I have enough on my conscience already. If you croak out here, I will lose my shit.”

  With a groan, I open the door and climb out, wrapping my stolen sleeping bag around me. “Let me get this straight. You want me to come home with you because it’ll help you sleep better.”

  The moonlight reflects off the light carpet of snow. He blinks, his handsome brow wrinkled with tension. “Something like that. But you’ll sleep better, too, right? Win-win.”

  “I don’t like owing people. You don’t even like me.”

  “Don’t even know you,” he growls in that abrupt way that Kieran says so many things. He squints at me. “What’s wrong? Did something happen?”

  “No! Nothing!” I bark, swatting at my face. I must look like I’ve been crying. I have never been more embarrassed than I am right now. “Go home, Kieran. You don’t want me for a roommate. You don’t even want me in the same area code.”

  He flinches. “Wasn’t ever about you, though.”

  “It never is,” I hiss, because I’m so tired of men who can’t sort out their shit. I was an excellent companion to Brian, who wanted me desperately about half the time and then couldn’t stand the sight of me the other half.

  “Look, you should have just told one of us you were sleeping in your car.”

  “It’s not your problem,” I argue.

  Kieran blinks. “Doesn’t mean we wouldn’t care.”

  And now I feel like a heel. “It’s embarrassing, okay? I didn’t plan on leaving Nashville as quickly as I did. And I drove up here hoping to crash at my parents’ place. But they shut the door in my face. It’s not the kind of story that’s fun to tell.”

  His big eyebrows furrow. “Why’d they do that?”

  “It’s the gay thing.” I make sure to keep eye contact while I say it, because I never let anyone know how much it bothers me. “They’re not into it.”

  “Oh.” He sighs. “Parents are the worst.”

  “Yeah.” An awkward silence falls between us. I shiver against the snow falling in my face.

  “Here,” Kieran says. He pulls an old business card out of his pocket and hands it to me. It’s from a barbershop, but he’s scrawled an address on the back. “It’s the white house right on the Colebury green. You can’t miss it. I’ll leave the side door open. Take the downstairs bedroom. There’s nothing in it, but it’s
heated.”

  “You can’t leave your door unlocked.”

  He rolls his eyes. “Better lock it after you come in, then.”

  At that, he walks across the lot, climbs into a pickup that’s almost as old as my car, and drives away.

  I let out a shout of frustration that dies quickly in the nighttime void and then get back in my car. There’s snow in my hair now. I sit for a moment, stubborn and shivering.

  He probably hopes I won’t actually show up. He did his part, right? He gave me the option, so now he can feel okay about it.

  Then again, he drove over here at eleven at night to offer me a room in his house.

  I ponder my choices for a little while longer. I can either sit here feeling cold and miserable all night. Or I can go someplace I’m not wanted.

  It’s really freaking cold in my car, so in the end, it’s an easy decision. I’m clinging to the bottom rung of my own life, and Kieran Shipley—Lord knows why—just offered me a hand up.

  I’d be an idiot not to take it.

  Even so, it takes me another half hour to get up the courage to drive into the center of town and pull into the driveway of a pretty white house right on the town green. I double and then triple check the address before I walk up to the side door and try the knob.

  It’s unlocked.

  I take a deep breath and then push the door open. “Hello?” I call out, and the sound of my own voice echoes. “This had better be Kieran’s house. Either that, or I’m about to be arrested for trespassing. And I don’t have bail money.”

  I hear what may possibly be a distant snort of laughter. And then quiet footsteps begin to pace down the dark stairs.

  Kieran comes into view bit by bit. First the plaid pajama pants on long legs. And then those abs and a broad chest covered by a T-shirt that stretches tautly across all those muscles. But the darkness—or maybe it’s the late hour—softens him. “Hey,” he says quietly.

  “Hey,” I grunt, sounding grumpy in spite of my gratitude. “I, uh, know it’s late. You’re going to be dead in the morning.”

  “And you’re not?”

  I shake my head. “If I can lie flat for five hours, it will be the best night of sleep I’ve had in a week. But are you sure about this?”

  “Of course,” he whispers. “Let me give you the nickel tour.”

  I follow him through the darkened rooms, where the streetlights from outside show me enough to get the lay of the land. The kitchen has been recently updated, but everything else is old school—in a good way. The ceilings are high, and there are original moldings and traditional wood floors.

  “Nice house,” I say, giving a low whistle.

  “I know.” He runs one hand through tousled hair. “It’s a lot nicer than I’d be renting without the insider’s price from Zara. I figured I’d rent out this downstairs bedroom.” He gestures toward the darkened doorway at the back. “That way we’d have separate bathrooms.”

  “Good plan,” I agree. Lord knows I’m not strong enough to resist a glimpse of his naked body as he steps out of the shower.

  I want a glimpse, of course. Because I’m still breathing.

  This is probably a terrible idea, but not terrible enough for me to sleep in my car if I don’t have to.

  “Upstairs there’s another two bedrooms and a bathroom. And an attic I haven’t ventured into. So I’d have more space than you. But I also agreed to do some maintenance for Zara. And a few other things.”

  “Cool.” I wave a hand to indicate that square footage is not exactly important to me. “How much is the rent?”

  “Your part would be six-fifty a month, plus utilities. I have no idea how much heat and electric will cost, though.”

  “That’s all?” I’m stunned. “That’s cheap.”

  “Well, it’s exactly half the rent. That’s why I wasn’t gonna find two roommates. Didn’t seem necessary.”

  “Wow, okay.” I brush past Kieran and walk down the hallway into the empty bedroom, where there’s a window seat that looks out into the backyard. It’s a terrific little room, in a kickass house.

  “Zara gave me a deal because she wants some help while Dave is away, and she wanted to rent to somebody she knows.”

  “Yeah.” I clear my throat. “Look. I don’t want you to turn away somebody you’d rather have as a roommate just because I’m strapped. I don’t want charity. You weren’t so happy to see me roll back into town.”

  “Yeah.” He winces. “Let’s just forget about that.”

  “You never said why, though,” I press.

  “Seriously?” He folds burly arms over his chest. “It’s not that hard to figure out.”

  “Because of high school,” I guess.

  “Yes, Captain Obvious. But that’s, uh, water under the bridge. I haven’t been a stalker since then.”

  I actually grin. “You weren’t a stalker. You were a voyeur. It’s different.”

  “Look,” Kieran grunts. “You want the room or not? My only condition is that we never speak of this again.”

  “Okay.” I bite back my smile. “Sorry. It’s just that you’re the only one who doesn’t like that memory. I kind of like voyeurs. I don’t have very many hang-ups…” I catch the look on his face, and raise two hands in supplication. “Right. Never mind. We won’t speak of it again.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s just stupid high school shit, anyway,” I add. “Lord knows I don’t want to be held accountable for anything I did as a teenager. Or, hell, my early twenties. Okay—one of these days I’m going to stop making stupid decisions. Any second now.” I laugh, and Kieran smiles so quickly that I might have imagined it.

  We end up eyeing each other for a quiet moment. And suddenly I become all too aware that I’m alone with a hot farmer boy at midnight in an empty house. His eyes are beautiful, but they’re the kind that see more than they give away. I have no idea what this man is thinking. And if he has his way, I never will.

  “What else do you need from me?” I blurt out. “What about a security deposit? I’d need to get a real paycheck before I can give that to you. If that’s a deal-killer, I’ll understand.”

  “Nah.” Kieran shakes his head. “Zara didn’t charge me one, so it would be a dick move if I asked that of you.”

  “Oh,” I say slowly. “Did, uh, Zara make you rent me the room? Because if she did, we can just say I wasn’t interested…”

  “No.” He frowns. “She has no idea. And our rent isn’t due until December first, anyway.”

  “Okay,” I gulp. “Unless you change your mind before then, you’ve got yourself a roommate.” I reach out a hand to him.

  Kieran actually hesitates for a fractional second before reaching out to shake. When our palms meet, a flash of heat washes across my skin. His fingers close over mine, and I’m far too conscious of how close we’re standing together in what is going to be our house.

  If this is what it will feel like to live with Kieran, I’m so very screwed. “I’ll bring in my sleeping bag, then.”

  “I’ve got a camping mattress you can borrow until you get a real bed.” He yawns and stretches, and his T-shirt rides up a few crucial inches, so I check out his abs.

  Rein it in, Roddy, I coach myself. Or you’ll be back on the street before you know it.

  Kieran doesn’t notice, though. He lumbers upstairs to get the camping mattress, while I dart outside to get a few of my things.

  After I come back into the house, I close the door behind me and lock it tightly. Then I let out a big sigh of relief. I’m still dangling over the abyss, but someone just threw me a lifeline.

  Thank you, Vermont. This place isn’t half bad.

  That night I lie down in a quiet room and stretch my toes all the way to the bottom of the sleeping bag. I have five straight hours of the best sleep I’ve had in ages, and when my alarm goes off, I wash up in a warm bathroom and then drive to work.

  The commute takes literally three minutes. I’ve never had it so ea
sy.

  Zara and I make two dozen gorgeous bagels and a slew of muffins and pastries. When Kieran comes in to work behind the counter, I fix him a pumpernickel bagel with smoked salmon and cream cheese and carry the plate out front. “This is for you. Thanks for everything.”

  He blinks. Then he takes the plate and licks his lips. “Thank you. And you’re welcome. I’ll start the coffee before I eat this.”

  “Good plan.”

  As I return to the kitchen, I catch Zara watching us. “What’s up with Kieran? Anything wrong?”

  “Not a thing,” I say, carrying some dishes to the sink. “I, uh, asked him to rent a room to me, and I guess I’m your tenant now, too.”

  “Oh,” she says, obviously startled. “That’s nice.”

  She has no idea.

  When I get off work at three, Kieran is off to one of his other jobs. The dude works hard. So I’m left to my own devices, exploring his house in the daylight.

  I don’t go upstairs, because I won’t invade his privacy. But I poke around the empty living room, taking in the inlaid details in the wood floor, and admiring the view of the town green from the front window. Colebury isn’t a fancy town, but this is the nicest part of it. Most of the houses around the square have been recently upgraded. My parents’ church is visible on the opposite side of the green. Once a week they’ll be a quarter mile away, I suppose, praying for my soul.

  Or not. I wonder if they think of me at all.

  On this depressing thought, I continue my investigation of the house. The dining room is beautiful, with built-in china cabinets in the corners. It lacks a table and chairs, but nobody’s perfect.

  In the kitchen, I open all the cabinets and drawers, finding them empty. So I go out to my car and fetch the very few items that I brought with me from Nashville. I’ve got my favorite mixing bowl, a single All-Clad skillet, a kitchen scale, my lucky saucepan, and my knives.

  A cook never goes anywhere without his knives. I left my whole life behind in Nashville, including my guitar, but somehow I had enough clarity to take my favorite kitchen essentials. I wasn’t about to walk away without my five-hundred-dollar set of Wüsthofs. They’re worth more than the guitar, anyway.