by Piper Lennox
“Bad roommates?” Walt asks, as he and I get at either end of the dresser and lift. The ramp clanks under our footfall while Colby and London bring up the rear, each holding a box.
“The worst. But it was a long time coming, really.” She gets quiet. “I probably should have left way sooner.”
Walt, who’s got his back to her while I lead, raises his eyebrow at me. I know this look. He wants me to ask more, start a conversation.
“Which unit is it?” I ask instead, and his hinting face turns into a straight-up scowl.
“204,” she calls. I glance back as we reach the top of the stairs. Colby’s behind London, watching her feet as they make contact with each step, one hand fluttering near the bottom of the box. Waiting to catch her, I realize, in case she stumbles.
“Wait, the Hurley twins’ unit?” Walt wipes his brow before we heft up the dresser again. This thing sure feels like an antique: lots of wood and brass, with plenty of jagged ornamental edges. “Did they move out?”
“No, no, they’re my roommates.” Colby squeezes past us to get the door. “So you know them? What are they like?”
“Very sweet, very bubbly, very into kawaii,” Walt says tightly, as we shuffle towards the hallway.
“Kawaii?”
“You’ll see.”
We set the dresser in Colby’s room where she directs us. Colby and London, meanwhile, sit in the center of the floor and open their boxes like it’s Christmas.
“What’s this?” London pulls a stuffed panda from her box. It’s maybe three inches tall, with buttons for eyes and some of its fur rubbed off down the back.
“That’s Bruno.” Colby proudly places the panda in the center of her dresser. “I’ve had him since the day I was born.”
“And what’s this?” Now, London digs through Colby’s box, coming up with items that have no business being packed together: a snorkel, a curling iron, and a snow globe. Judging by the lack of labels on the boxes I saw in the trailer, I’m guessing Colby threw everything in wherever it could fit.
This is going to be a long day.
“Okay,” I announce, clapping my hands to refocus her attention, “what’s next?”
“Oh.” She hands London the snow globe. “There’s more in that box, if you want to get them out and put them somewhere for me. Wherever you think they look the best. I’m going to help your dad and...” She points at Walt. “Uncle?”
“For all intents and purposes,” he nods.
I remind London to behave. She ignores me and digs through the box like it’s buried treasure.
Back in the truck, Colby shifts boxes until we can reach her bed frame. Once that’s inside, along with her mattress, an armchair, and floor lamp, we start on the boxes. I’m dripping sweat by the time we’re finished, but I’m surprised at how quickly the job is done.
“Thank you guys, so, so much.” Colby folds her hands in front of her face. “I couldn’t have done all that on my own.”
“Happy to help,” Walt pants. He chugs the water Colby gave him and, when she isn’t looking, hits my arm.
“Uh...yeah,” I stammer. “Don’t mention it. Do you want help going through the boxes, too, or....?”
“No, no, I can do that. Thank you, though.”
“I want to help!” London points to the dresser, where at least fifteen snow globes are arranged in a meticulous line in front of the television, still encased in bubble wrap. “See? Didn’t I do good with the snow globes, Daddy?”
“You did great, bug.” I wipe my brow. “But I think Colby wants some alone time to unpack, now.”
“But she told me I could play the....” London’s face crumples; her voice warps into a dolphin whine.
“Yep,” I wince. “Naptime.”
“I, uh...I did tell her I’d let her play Gem Tide, when we were finished.” Colby winces as she admits this to me. “If that’s okay.”
London’s reaching full meltdown mode. “No, she needs to get home. Didn’t sleep much last night.”
“Oh,” Colby says. It’s quiet, but somehow even London’s wails can’t drown it out. “I was going to offer you a drink or something. Like, as a thank-you. But we can rain check.”
I’m about to nod when Walt says, “I’ll take London home. You stay.”
If looks could kill, I’d have murdered him a hundred times by now.
“I want to stay,” London blubbers, and before I can scoop her up, my little saving grace...Walt intercepts again.
“Tell you what,” he whispers, as she sobs into his shoulder all the way down the hall, “I’ll let you nap on the couch. We’ll watch whatever you want to watch. Sound good? Let’s give Dad a break for a while.”
He calls goodbye to Colby, and the door shuts. I stand in the doorway of her bedroom and decide to smother Walt in his sleep.
Eight
Orion
“You don’t have to stay, you know.”
I turn to Colby. She uses the opportunity to slip through; I notice a wine bottle in her hand, still wrapped in newspaper and masking tape. No idea what to do next, I follow her to the living room.
“I mean,” she adds, setting the bottle on the counter and opening cabinets two at a time, “it’s not like my feelings will be hurt, if you don’t.”
Her eyes flicker to mine. I think of Kona again, or even the day we met, at the veterinary office. How her honesty, that ease of saying whatever she thought, drew me in like a magnet.
But, also like a magnet, I know it’s only a matter of time before things flip, and I’m repelled.
“Walt told you to do this, didn’t he.” I don’t ask this; I state it. She finds the wine glasses, inspects them, then starts on the drawers for a corkscrew.
“He did. But I agreed I’d offer you a drink before I knew who you were, so.”
I watch her rummage and come up with the wine opener. She stabs the end into the cork, then twists it down without even unwrapping the bottle from the packing material. “Would you have agreed if you did know?”
“Probably.” The cork pops out on the first try. She pours some into each glass and starts to hand me mine, then stops. “Shit—can you drink?”
“I’m twenty-three, so yes.”
She blushes. “I meant with your kidneys. Kidney,” she corrects.
I take the glass and clink it to hers. We sip. She watches me like I might die right there on her kitchen floor.
“They’ve done a bunch of research on it, actually. Most people can drink moderately after a transplant without anything bad happening. It helps most of them, in fact.”
“I just wondered. I’ve never known anyone with bum kidneys.”
My laugh surprises me. “You’ve really got to stop phrasing it like that.”
Colby smiles behind her glass and sits. Not in the living room, or even on the counter: right there on the linoleum, cross-legged and sipping.
“Been a while since I drank alcohol on somebody’s kitchen floor.” I slide down against the island. She leans into the corner where two cabinets meet.
“How’s Buttons?”
“What?” My mouth is filled with wine, so the word comes out garbled. I swallow as her question clicks: she’s asking about the cat. “Oh, he’s fine. The missing ear doesn’t even seem to bother him.”
“Animals adapt fast.”
“Better than humans.” We both smile, even though I wasn’t joking.
“Did London adjust? I wasn’t there when you guys picked him up.”
“She cried her eyes out the entire drive home. But once she saw he could still do everything he used to, she calmed down.”
Colby traces the rim of her glass with her pinky, then licks the wine collected there. I’m reminded of my last night in Kona, and too many nights since, when I imagined running my tongue across her skin.
The fantasy plays like a memory; it even feels like one. I wish like hell I’d just hurry up and forget it.
“She, uh...she really loved your snow globe collectio
n.” I clear my throat. “Anything that keeps her attention that long is a miracle.”
“I was like that, too.” The pieces of hair that drift over her eyes should lessen the impact when she stares at me. Instead, they make it stronger. Like the urge to lift a curtain and unveil whatever’s behind it. “Not with snow globes, really—just because they came from zoos. Anything animal-related. Like London and her morbid princess stories.”
I laugh again. It skates across the linoleum.
What are you doing here? Okay, so Colby is beautiful. So she’s weird in a way I can’t decide pulls me in or pushes me far, far away. So I’ve fantasized about stripping her down and taking anything she’s willing to give me.
It still doesn’t mean it’s a good idea.
“Do you know anything about these girls?” She scoots forward, all the way to the fridge, trailing a ball of dust behind her shorts. I watch it skitter away before following.
The fridge is plastered with photos. Not just Polaroids and kiosk prints, but full-gloss, professional portraits of the Hurleys, decked out in enough glitter to blind a pop starlet. Colby reaches out and manages to grab one with her fingertips, tugging it from its magnet.
“Wow, they’ve been to Paris,” she whistles, as she points to the Eiffel Tower in the background.
“And China, apparently.” I grab another and pass it to her. “Didn’t know blogging could pay so well.”
“It makes me wonder why they even wanted a roommate.” Colby reaches for another photo—the girls posing with what appears to be an Asian boy band, everyone flashing peace signs. Her fingers skim the bottom; she groans and tries again, but still can’t reach.
Why I grab it for her, I’m not sure. Probably out of politeness.
Why I choose to wrap my fingers around hers when I grab it, I have no idea.
And as for why I don’t pull my hand away as soon as we bring the photo down to her lap, even when she quiets mid-thanks and we stare at each other, an invisible clock in another universe ticking down—that really does leave me clueless.
Colby
Orion’s lips part as he leans close. I shut my eyes and relive every daydream I’ve had about this since his hotel room: the instant you know, somehow, everything will change. You just have to let it.
His mouth brushes mine. I unwind my muscles, feeling my fingers melt inside his hand at this first glorious contact.
When the universe disrupts my life, it’s never subtle. Some people probably think of bad luck as a hanging cloud that mopes along behind you: you sense its presence, always, and feel the air cool right before it touches down. It still sucks, but you get some warning.
Yeah. That’s not how it works for me. Whatever force is in charge of my life prefers grand entrances, on par with that giant fucking Kool-Aid pitcher.
Or, in this case, my new roommates arriving.
“...it was not the Betsey Johnson handbag,” a voice booms, followed by the slam of the door handle against the rubber stopper.
Orion pulls back. He draws his lips between his teeth. I stay where I am and stare at him, even when he looks away.
A quieter, but identical, voice retorts, “It was. I’ll show you, I got pictures. Remember? At the front desk? It was the girl with the labret piercing you liked.”
“Yes, I remember. That’s why I’m telling you it was definitely not a Betsey. I think it was from Topshop.”
The voices halt as soon as the girls see us, sitting cross-legged behind the island together, a pile of their photos in my lap. Orion bolts to his feet, but I take my time. It’s not like we were doing anything wrong—although, judging by the expression on his face, it’s pretty clear he thinks we were.
“Hi,” one of the twins chirps. She shakes my hand. “Colby, right? I’m Georgia, and this is Clara.”
“Nice to meet you. In person, I mean.” I hesitate. “This is Or—”
“Orion,” the girls say at the same time. It’s creepy, but maybe because I’m not used to twins.
“Uh...yeah,” he says. “Sorry, have we actually met, before?”
Georgia waves her hand. I can already tell she was the louder voice we heard. “No, but Walt talks about you all the time.” She looks between us, tilting her head. “Are you two...?”
“No.” Like the twins, we say this together, at exactly the same moment. Too bad his is so much more vehement than mine.
“I was helping her move. But I, uh...I should get going.” Orion picks up the wine glasses from the linoleum and sets them on the counter. “It was nice to meet you guys.”
He hesitates before looking at me. “And it was good seeing you again. Welcome to the complex.”
“Thanks.” I don’t bother plastering on the same smile as him. Not only did the universe shorten what could have been an amazing kiss into a pitiful elementary-school peck, but adding insult to injury is the fact Orion seems so damn relieved about it.
His exit is the most awkward, stiff-legged one I’ve ever seen. All three of us watch him go, which doesn’t help. Good.
“Wow,” Clara giggles, as she and Georgia fan themselves. “He’s so much hotter up-close! How’d you get him to help?”
“Yeah,” Georgia adds, picking up Orion’s wine glass and refilling it for herself. “Rumor is he turns down every woman in the complex who even hints at hitting on him.”
“I wasn’t hitting on him. We kind of already knew each other.” I get down another wine glass for Clara, fill it, and top off my own. “But to answer your question, it was Walt’s doing.”
“Walt’s the best. We took a spin class with him last year, so fun.”
We clink our wine together and drink. The girls take turns telling me about their convention, then asking me what I do, what’s Kona like, the usual. I find myself constantly looking between them, like deciphering one of those “What’s Different?” photos.
They’re definitely identical: same short heights and upturned noses, same dramatic brows and pixie cuts, but Georgia has a more natural look and much louder attitude. Her hair is a dusty brown; her makeup, minimal. She talks with her hands in big, sweeping gestures.
Clara, on the other hand, has the ends of her hair colored rose pink, a diamond embedded near her eye, and a quiet, collected demeanor that balances her twin’s erratic one.
“Can I ask,” I say carefully, when we’ve gotten at least an hour of getting to know each other out of the way, “why did you guys want a roommate?” I motion to the photos on the fridge, then their setup in the living room. “It seems like you make plenty from the blogs and makeup tutorials and stuff.”
“We do,” Georgia winks, pulling her knees into her shirt on the couch.
“But,” Clara adds seriously, as she shoots her sister a look, “we want to save for an RV, so we can travel and work. Having a roommate just makes sense. I mean, we’d share our bedroom anyway, so why not?”
Georgia picks at a decal on one of her nails. I notice that they’re plastered with tiny ice cream cones that, for whatever reason, have smiley faces on them. The pillows behind my back are actually plush sushi rolls—also with faces—and a row of vinyl figurines (smiling, big-headed farm animals) rests on a shelf over the television. I’m starting to wonder if this is what Walt meant by “kawaii.”
“You know,” she says suddenly, tilting her head again, like she did when she was observing Orion and me, “you have great coloring.”
“Uh...thank you. I don’t know what that means, but thanks.”
“Have you thought about highlights, ever?” She lifts the front sections of my hair and holds them up to the light. “Something ashy blonde, maybe?”
“Can’t say I have.”
“I bet Orion would love it,” she winks. She lets go and turns her attention to her wine, while Clara flips through the channel guide at lightning-speed.
I try to protest, somehow. Reinforce what Orion made clear: we aren’t together, or anything close to it. And that’s the way it’s gonna stay. For whatever reaso
n, I can’t think of a thing.
Later that night, after I’m thoroughly exhausted from moving, the twins’ seemingly boundless energy, and Georgia’s no-holds-barred commentary on...well, everything—though it is nice to know someone out there has about as good a filter as I do—I flop across my bare mattress and sigh. The kiss, or what little there was of it, replays in my head.
I have more important things to focus on than Orion. Like moving up at the vet’s office, or finding a second job, if I have to. Anything to sever my tie with my parents’ checkbook. Once upon a time, before Eden died, I was independent and capable out here. Sure, Mom still tried her hand at luring me back to Kona, but she didn’t have the actual power to make it happen.
Before Eden died, I was an adult. A new one, but making my own way out here. Confident. Ready to tackle vet school, a real career, and the rest of the world.
One thing I never worried about, back then, was a boyfriend. Hell, forget a boyfriend: friends. I had goals and a perfect plan, and I didn’t want or need any distractions. The fact I couldn’t get those distractions, even if I had wanted them, was a non-issue. Maybe it was because I had Eden, dysfunctional as she was. Back then, even if I felt annoyed, at least I never felt lonely.
And now here I am, pouting over a lost kiss with a guy who didn’t even want it to happen. Socially drained from just a few hours with the first girls I’ve spoken to outside of work in months.
You’re getting too caught up, Eden would tell me, most likely while combing a mascara wand through her long, batting eyelashes. There’s always gonna be time for men and all the fun stuff. Focus on you. While you still can.
I push myself over onto my back and watch a crane fly ping against its own shadow in vain.
Her philosophy was sound. It’s what drew me out of Hawaii in the first place, when I picked a college on the mainland. It’s what drew me to California when I graduated.
It’s what drew me back to her, and her apartment where Ramen every night and public transport were badges of honor: she was Poor, but Making It. And if I just listened to her, I could Make It too.
