Eight
Lincoln
Jenny’s avoiding me. Maybe she could hide it better if we lived in a bigger place, but this apartment is smaller than some of those train carriages I photographed. The walls are thin and the floorboards creak. I could say her name at a normal volume from the kitchen and hear her answer from inside the shower.
That has actually happened to me. I nearly didn’t survive it.
Hell, sometimes late at night when I’m lying in my bed, I swear I can hear the soft, sleepy rhythm of her breaths, falling into sync with mine.
So I know, sure as anything, whenever Jenny tiptoes into the kitchen to make coffee when she thinks the coast is clear. I know when she drags a side table into her bedroom so she can work on her sewing behind a closed door, the loud rattle of the machine floating through her wall like gunfire.
And I hate it. I fucking hate it.
I’m addicted to that girl, and she clearly wants me gone already.
I’ll do the right thing, because I may be tattooed and scruffy and rough around the edges, but I won’t stay near Jenny if it makes her uncomfortable. So I start putting out feelers for my next job, and I write up a new ad for the room.
“Will you read this, sweetheart?”
Okay, so I keep calling her that. I should stop that too, but you know—I’m in withdrawal. Baby steps.
Jenny blinks at me from beside the kitchen counter, steam rising from the milky coffee she just made, the morning sunshine spilling through the window and glinting gold in her ponytail. Her eyes dart around like she’s searching for an escape, and pain radiates through my chest at that, but I hold up my laptop. I won’t bother her for long.
“It’s the room listing. You want to check it over before I put it up?”
Jenny stares at me, eyes wide. Her spoon clatters to the counter. “You’re leaving?”
Well. Yeah.
“It’s okay, I’ll find you another roommate. Someone trustworthy.” And a woman, too, if I get my way. “And I’ll keep paying rent until they’re here. There won’t be a gap, so don’t worry.”
Jenny shakes her head, slowly, like she’s not hearing me properly. “I’m not worried.”
Good. Fine. I step closer, hoisting the laptop between us so she doesn’t get the wrong idea. The word doc’s up on the screen, my suggested ad ready and waiting.
“I took out the bit about bringing a microwave. Unless you want to collect them.”
Jenny puffs out a strained laugh and shakes her head. Her voice is weak, her forehead creasing as she scans the ad. “No. One is enough.”
“And don’t take this the wrong way, but your listing was a little blunt. So I made it friendlier.”
“I was drunk,” Jenny mumbles, and I tilt my head.
“Huh?”
“I was drunk,” she says, clear as day. Her nails tap on the counter, and she’s done reading, but her eyes are still fixed on the screen. “My last roommate robbed me, so I got drunk on three bowls of ice cream and bourbon then posted that ad. I was so embarrassed the next day, and I was going to take it down but then I saw your message.”
I roll my neck, pulse racing. I want to enjoy the image of tipsy Jenny three bowls deep in boozy ice cream, but I can’t. She got robbed? Someone stole from my girl? How much?
“You got contact details for that fucker? You know where they went?”
Jenny rolls her eyes. “Obviously not.”
“Did you file a report?”
“Lincoln. No.”
I’m pissing her off, I can tell, being all overbearing and nosy, but I can’t help it. Pretty soon I’ll be gone, wiped clean from her life, but until that day she’s still my roommate. Mine to protect.