One
Jenny
The microwave is gone. The microwave. Who the hell steals a microwave when they screw their roommate over and empty out the apartment?
The TV, sure. That was a given. As soon as I saw the set of keys on the coffee table and the note that just said ‘Sorry’, I knew I’d be watching movies on my crappy old laptop for the foreseeable future. And I knew, deep in my bones, that my flighty roommate’s half of the rent for the last three months was never, ever gonna land in my bank account, despite all her promises and gushing apologies. Despite bailing her out time and time again.
But the microwave? Wow. Low blow.
How am I gonna make my pity popcorn now?
Sighing, I drop my sewing bags on the kitchen floor, pins and bobbins rattling inside their dented cookie tin. The faucet drips into the sink, a steady plop, plop, plop that makes my temples throb, and I pace up and down on the worn tiles, the floor creaking under my steps. I march past small cupboards crammed with cans and packets; a shelf piled high with saucepans. The potted basil growing on the windowsill, leaves straining to reach the patch of late afternoon sun.
The evidence of my small, timid life.
It could be worse. I could have left my sewing machine here—could have gone out on a different errand and left my whole livelihood at risk, because god knows it’s worth more than that stupid TV. Instead, she’s left me high and dry sure enough, but I can still work. There’s hope.
But I bite my lip, stomach churning.
Because I’ll have to go out there again. Today was bad enough. My head’s still pounding with the stress of venturing out, but I’ll have to—have to find a stranger to rent the spare room. The peace and quiet of my apartment, the safety of the familiar…
It will be gone. She’s stolen that from me too, the jerk.
“Shit.” All the air empties from my lungs, and I’m back to pacing. Worrying my lip, then gnawing on my thumbnail instead.
Maybe I could make it work on my own. Redo my budget for the millionth time. Or maybe I could magic up some new sewing clients and bring in more cash. Anything to keep me from posting online like I know I’ll have to do within the next few hours; anything from inviting a stranger into the only place I feel truly at ease. My haven.
Because what if my new roommate is a loud eater?
What if they play music late at night?
What if they let their dirty dishes pile up, or invite loads of friends around to party, or—even worse—what if they want to hang out with me?
“No, no, no.” My ears are ringing and my back is clammy with sweat under my shirt. This freaking sucks. I’m not equipped for this.
“Focus,” I mutter, my voice hoarse in the quiet kitchen. My throat is so tight, I’m surprised any sound comes out at all. Plop, plop, plop, goes the faucet, mocking me. “Focus, Jenny.”
I’ve done this before. I’ve found a roommate and lived with a stranger, and even though it’s backfired like crazy this time, I can do it again. I’m an adult, damn it. I can exist in the real world like a normal person. I can.
First, though, I tug the freezer door open with a sigh, because I need a huge bowl of ice cream.
Ice cream with bourbon.
Yeah.
Lots and lots of bourbon.
* * *
GOOD WIFI.
Three hours later, I squint at my ad so far, the letters swimming around on my screen. There’s a hairline crack spreading from the corner of my laptop, and I keep getting distracted and staring at it. Keep thinking, in the dark, fuzzy resources of my brain, that it looks like the veins in someone’s forearm, or a tree branch from below, or one of those posters of river networks in the Amazon.
Alright, forget that—I’m procrastinating. Back to business.
NO PARTIES.
NO SMALL TALK.