by Jade Hart
Chelsea’s petite fingers tapped a few keys on the keyboard. “No, my organic chemistry report is due tomorrow.”
“Didn’t you finish that last week?” I had a vague recollection of her mentioning it.
“I did, but the conclusion has been bugging me, and I wanted to check it for any errors.”
I was tempted to tell Chelsea that I was sure the paper was A-plus material, but why waste my breath? Chelsea wasn’t just a perfectionist, she was a borderline obsessive-compulsive, and wouldn’t be able to rest until she’d checked the paper twice-over. Or twentieth-over.
I stopped at the refrigerator for a Caffeine-Free Diet Coke. “Do I have any messages?”
“On the pad.”
I popped the top of my can and took a sip as I crossed into our tidy living room. Our apartment was a two-bedroom, two-bath, with a rectangular great room that housed the kitchen and living room, and bedrooms flanking the east and west walls. Our shared living areas were decorated in neutral shades: off-white walls, beige micro-suede furniture secondhanded to us by Chelsea’s parents, and a set of glass-covered coffee and end tables. Wrought-iron candle sconces and paintings of white flowers hung on the walls, and our 19-inch television sat on a stand I scored outside the dumpster after last year’s crop of seniors graduated. The only true splashes of color in the room were a rattan Papasan chair with a cardinal-red cushion, and a like-colored blanket that sported Rocky, our college’s beloved razorback, folded neatly over the back of the sofa.
The whole place had a very adult feel and didn’t represent my more eclectic tastes, but I wasn’t about to complain. One of Chelsea’s many scholarships paid three-quarters of the apartment’s monthly rent, so my share was dirt-cheap. Good thing, too, since my work-study position at the student health center had been axed due to budget cuts at the end of the last semester, so I was living on my partial tuition waiver and student loans.
I retrieved the notepad from its place by the phone. The first message was from my mom, reminding me of dinner on Thursday with her latest boyfriend. Not that I’d forgotten; visits home meant free access to the washing machine and I was running desperately low on clean panties. The second message was from the mechanic at Gallo’s Garage, informing me that my car would be available for pickup in two days. “What the…? Hey, did the mechanic mention why he needed to keep the car longer?”
My VW Golf had been in the shop for over two weeks, taken in for what I’d been told was a simple recharge of the air conditioner. Every other day since, I received a call reporting problems with the compressor, then the condenser, and most recently, the evaporator. The words were gibberish, but one thing was becoming alarmingly clear: my bank account was about to take a serious hit, and it was still only the beginning of February. I wasn’t just going to be living lean for the next four months, I’d be living anorexic.
When Chelsea failed to answer, I looked over my shoulder to find her staring at the computer screen with single-minded focus. “Chelsea? Hey, Chels!”
Chelsea jumped, upsetting the keyboard on the pull-out drawer. “What?” she asked, her voice ringing with exasperation. She flicked back a lock of brown hair from her forehead.
“The mechanic?” I waved the notepad. “Why does he need more time?”
“It didn’t occur to me to ask. I’m just the messenger.”
I flung the pad down. The one time I try to be proactive by fixing the car before lack of A.C. became a critical issue and it bites me in the ass. “This is getting ridiculous. This guy has got to be taking me for a ride.”
Chelsea’s willowy shoulders rose and fell. “So, drag Ian down there and make sure everything’s on the up-and-up.” And, please, let me get my work done, was the unsaid statement trailing her words.
I didn’t take offense to the undercurrent of irritation in my roommate’s voice. Chelsea lived a regimented life, full of structure and schedules. Being up this late meant she was off her schedule, which tended to put her on edge. She was normally sweeter than pie.
“Fine,” I said. “I’ll leave you to fondle your keyboard.”
Chelsea gave me a sarcastic smile. “Thank you.”
Walking into my bedroom was like walking into another apartment – one representative of me. A patchwork quilt done in primary colors was thrown over my bed. Curtains I’d knotted together out of multi-colored squares of organza hung over the window, dark for now, but during the day they painted my room like a stained-glass window. I had an old white dresser by the door, with my stereo, docking station, and jewelry box on top. A small desk stacked with textbooks and my ancient laptop - 1999, baby! - was positioned by the window to give me a view of the White Mountains. My favorite art print, Hieronymus Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, hung over the length of my bed.
Mine was the smaller of the two bedrooms, not much bigger than a prison cell, really, but it came with its own private bath and was on the end of the building. Chelsea’s room was almost twice as big as mine, but hers was the bathroom guests used and her wall backed a quartet of noisy soccer players, hence her computer setup off the kitchen.
Yawning, I tossed my bag on my bed and stripped, leaving a trail of clothes on the carpet on my way to the bathroom. Pandora, my grumpy Russian Blue rescue cat darted out from beneath my bed to pounce on one of my socks, almost knocking me over.
After washing away the day’s dirt, I threw on an oversized Riordan Athletics XXL Tee and climbed into bed. I had to be up for class at eight. Unfortunately, sleep didn’t come easily. It never did after a show. I fleetingly considered engaging in a little ménage a moi, knowing it was a surefire way to help me fall asleep, but the truth was, masturbation was becoming less and less satisfying. Plus, I was pretty confident I was starting to feel the first pangs of carpal tunnel in my wrist.
I snuggled deeper into the blankets and released a wistful sigh, thinking about what I really wanted: an active sex life. I missed the feel of warm skin, of heated kisses and large hands on my flesh. I missed the euphoric, frenzied rush of joining together with someone who stimulated my mind, heart and body.
Eight long, dry months had passed since I last had someone in my bed. Not for a lack of offers, mind you; I was just very particular. And cautious. Too often I encountered the kind of opportunists who simply wanted to nail the campus sex-guru. And on the rare occasions I met someone whose interest seemed genuine – like Brian’s had seemed to be - Ian managed to get in the way, even when that wasn’t his intent.
I punched my pillow and rolled onto my side. Ian had run some of my prospective dates off, but some guys were just too insecure to accept that I had a male best friend, especially one as… okay, hot as Ian. Oliver, my last serious boyfriend, had even given me an ultimatum. I chose Ian – no contest.
Boyfriends would come and go, but Ian Hollister was a permanent fixture in my life.
Still, it would have been nice to find a way to have both.
