The Perfect Roommate

by Minka Kent

  “You want me to show you around?” Lauren rises from her seat and straightens the hem of her top.

  Returning my water to its floral napkin resting place, I stand. “Sure.”

  Spinning on the ball of her foot, she struts across the small living room, toward a dark hallway. I follow. Flicking on the light, she says, “This house is, like, a million years old. It’s really dark. Windows are small. And your room is on the smaller side, by the way.”

  My room.

  “I mean, the room you’d be renting,” she clarifies. “If you want it.”

  Stopping at the last door, she reaches her hand inside and gets the switch.

  Clearly we have different definitions of “small.” This room is easily the size of my last apartment, complete with shiny wood floors, a double bed, a nightstand, dresser, and two curtain-covered windows.

  “But you’d get your own bathroom—the hall bath.” Lauren’s words are rushed, as if she’s worried I’m having second thoughts. “I never use it.”

  We step inside, and she shows me the closet, which is the smallest thing about this room. But it’s fine. I don’t have a lot.

  “What do you think?” Lauren lifts her nails to her mouth, watching for my reaction. “It’s yours if you want it.”

  “You sure?” I lift an eyebrow. We’ve known each other all of fifteen minutes, though I suppose living with strangers is kind of the college way.

  “Oh my God, are you serious?” She laughs. “You’re everything, Meadow. All that stuff you told me? You’re the perfect roommate. Quiet. Studious. Polite. You’re a rarity in this town, do you know that?”

  Yes. Well aware. And she’s kind to say that. I let her earlier words echo in my mind. No one’s ever called me perfect before—in any context.

  It feels kind of … amazing.

  As much as I try not to, I beam like an appeased idiot, my ego practically purring like a milk-fed kitten.

  I know nothing about Lauren Wiedenfeld besides the fact that she treated me like a human being today, which maybe marks the first time in my collegiate history that anyone’s ever tried to have an actual conversation with me about anything, the first time someone’s ever been so engaged and interested.

  She’s not the mean girl I expected.

  “When do you want to move in?” she asks, bouncing on her toes and clasping her hands across her chest like an excited schoolgirl anticipating a slumber party. Not that I would know anything about that. I didn’t have friends in school. I just saw the way other girls would giggle and jump around Friday afternoons as they talked about the sleepover they’d been planning all week and whose mom was doing the picking up and whose mom was doing the dropping off.

  “Is … now … okay?” I ask, exhaling. “My stuff is in my car. I moved out of my apartment a while back, and I’ve been staying at my mom’s, commuting back and forth.”

  I have to lie if I want this place.

  And I do. I want it so bad.

  This house is adorable and clean and it smells like fresh flowers and it’s decorated like a page out of a Serena and Lily catalog. It would be the nicest place I’ve ever lived in. Maybe the nicest place I’ll ever live in.

  “Yeah, of course.” If Lauren doesn’t believe me about the commuting thing, she does a good job of hiding it. “You want me to help?”

  We head out of the room and down the hall, her messy bun bobbing as she walks, and she reaches up to tighten it—which of course makes it look even better.

  “No, it’s fine. I don’t have much,” I say, realizing I sound like someone who’s been living out of their car for God knows how long. “I mean, most of my stuff is back at my mom’s. I didn’t bring any furniture because your ad said the place was furnished.”

  I bite my tongue to keep from rambling on and making a mountain out of my mole hill of a lie. I hate lying. It feels unnatural, slimy. And I hate liars.

  But desperate times and all of that.

  I fully expect karma to bite me in the ass after all the little white lies I’ve told today.

  “Right,” Lauren says. “My mother had this place professionally decorated.” She reaches for a magnifying glass resting on top of a curated stack of interior design books on a marble-topped console. The handle is painted navy blue, with little stripes of bone-colored stone. “They went with a California coastal theme,” she continues. “My mom grew up in Orange County. Moved here to New York when she married my dad. I don’t think she ever got used to living in the frozen plains. You should see their house. Looks like it’s better suited on the beach in Malibu than in some gated neighborhood outside Albany.”

  Ooh. A “gated” neighborhood. How fancy.

  That’s the thing about rich people, they feel the need to insert these little details so casually in conversation, as if you’ve forgotten for a moment that they have money. It’s a crutch, I think. A side effect of their insecurity. And it’s a damn shame, too. Lauren could be that much more likeable if only she didn’t feel the need to word vomit her privileged upbringing into every topic of conversation.

  It’s almost as if she’s worried I won’t like her—which is hilarious. No one’s ever cared if I liked them.

  “Anyway, I’ll let you get settled,” she says, turning to face me when we reach the end of the hall. “If you need any help with anything, I’ll be in my room.”

  I smile and nod. It’s exhausting having to talk this much, having to smirk and laugh and be social and constantly engaged.

  But at least it didn’t kill me.

  Lauren disappears into her room, leaving the door open a crack. Soft, downtempo music plays a second later, the glow of her expensive, feather-light laptop filling her dark room. The sliver of light is like the tiniest peek into her world, and I must admit I’m curious—though I’m not sure why.

  Heading out to my Honda to grab my things, I realize that I’ve parked behind her shiny black Lexus. We’ll have to talk parking spots and particulars later. But for now, I need to focus on getting these bags and bins out of my backseat and into my beautiful new place.

  Lugging the first plastic tote in my arms a minute later, I return inside and trek down the hall to my well-appointed guest suite. Dropping it on the center of my bed, the top loosens and falls to the wooden floor with a plastic-y thump. Swiping it off the floor, I catch the hint of a white envelope sticking out from beneath the ruffled bed skirt.

  Upon first glance, it appears to be an old bill of some kind, or maybe a credit card offer? The return address is too generic to tell. I place it on top of the chest in the corner with the intention of giving it to Lauren when my gaze falls on the name.

  Emily Waterford.

  I grab the envelope again, examining the address.

  47 Magpie Drive.

  And the date on the postage meter sticker.

  December 17th of last year.

  Only two months ago.

  Lauren looked me in the eyes and told me she’d never had a roommate before, that her dire financial situation essentially began this semester.

  Did she … lie?

  God, I hope not. As hypocritical as it may be, if there’s anything in this world I can’t stand, it’s being lied to. It’s disrespectful, insulting. My tolerance for bullshit and everyday annoyances is higher than most, and keeping my mouth shut when something bothers me is what I do best, but being lied to drives me insane.

  It’s like they think I’m stupid. Or unworthy of the truth.

  Folding the envelope, I tuck it into my purse. I’m going to have to do some digging as soon as I get settled. But for now, I need to concentrate on not being homeless.

  Two

  Lauren raps on my door at half past eleven, just as I’ve finished hanging the last shirt in my new closet. Storage at my last place consisted of a broom closet with wire shelving that never seemed to stay in place, collapsing if I hung one too many shirts on the top rung.

  About time I moved up in the world.

  “Come in,�
� I say, taking a seat on my bed.

  A second later, she’s standing in the doorway, her lithe body covered in pricy-looking jeans and a Breton, boat-neck sweater. The bun is gone, replaced now with loose waves that drape over her shoulders effortlessly.

  “I’m meeting a friend for lunch in a few,” she says. “You want to come with?”

  For a second, I’m speechless, convinced she’s talking to some imaginary person standing behind me.

  No one has ever invited me for a casual girls’ lunch.

  “Come on, it’ll be fun!” Lauren grins, sensing my hesitation before striding across the room and taking the spot next to me. “You’ll love Tessa. And she wants to meet you.”

  My brows lift.

  Is this real life?

  “I promise she’s the sweetest person you’ll ever meet,” Lauren continues to try and sell me on this.

  “Why does she want to meet me?” I ask.

  Lauren blinks. My question doesn’t compute. And I suppose I get it. College is all about meeting new people, making connections—a mecca for social butterflies like her. These are the years when everyone is supposed to want to know everyone else, to network before we dip our toes into the real world. But casual dinners and drinks and parties and hangout sessions are a language I’ve never spoken.

  “Unless you’re busy,” she rises, sliding her hands in her back pockets, expression fading. I don’t want to offend her. And I sure as hell don’t want her to think I’m the snob in this situation. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not that. “Or maybe you have other plans? We can raincheck it.”

  My stomach rumbles. I haven’t eaten since last night. And of course I have no other plans. I don’t even have groceries.

  Ignoring the anxious prickle of sweat forming beneath my arms, I try my damnedest to convince myself to go despite the fact that every part of me doesn’t want to. I’d rather sit here, listen to some David Bowie, close my door, and get lost in my own little world.

  I love my world.

  But I can’t be rude.

  Not to my roommate, the girl I’m going to have to see day in and day out for the next three months. It’s important that we have a good rapport. We don’t have to be friends, but we should be cordial and this is the first step.

  “Okay, sure.” I force a smile that lights her face.

  “Yaaaay,” she says, voice soft as she claps. What is it with girls soft-clapping anytime they get excited? This isn’t the PGA tour. “Is sushi okay? We’re thinking Taki downtown?”

  Sushi? What kind of college student has a budget for Taki? Not to mention the thought of eating raw fish makes my stomach churn. I’ve always been convinced people only claim to like sushi because it sounds cool.

  I nod, my mouth watering—but not from hunger. “Of course.”

  Lauren goes to leave, and I think of the envelope. And Emily Waterford. Then I catch a glimpse of myself in the dresser mirror. If I’m going to get sushi at Taki with Lauren and Tessa, I need to look halfway presentable.

  “Give me a few minutes?” I drag my fingers through the sandy-blonde mop on my head, hoping a ponytail will suffice.

  She gives me a thumbs-up. And then she’s gone.

  Yanking the dresser drawers, I search for my newest pair of jeans, a Christmas gift from my grandmother who was appalled this past Thanksgiving when I confessed I didn’t own a single pair without frayed hems or holes in the crotch. Next, I pull a shirt from the closet. A button down. Pink with flowers. Probably better suited for a fifty-year-old white-collar professional than a twenty-two-year-old college student. It’s not trendy and it’s the kind of thing Lauren would never be caught dead in, but it isn’t stained or stretched, so it’ll have to do.

  Digging around inside one of my totes, I find my small Ziploc baggie of drugstore makeup. Most of it is old—my mascara nearly dried out and past its expiration, but it’s all I have.

  My hair is last, and the stubborn idiot in me attempts to do one of those messy bun things on the top of my head.

  I fail.

  Miserably.

  Which only causes my heart to race to the point that the room begins to spin, my breath quickens, and a thin glaze of sweat forms across my brow.

  Why did she have to invite me? Does she think we need to be friends just because we’re living together? I’m perfectly fine with doing the whole two-passing-ships-in-the-night thing with the occasional “hello” or “good morning.”

  A Xanax would be a godsend right now, but unfortunately, I used my last one four days ago, when I had to give a presentation in my English Women Novelists class.

  Brushing my hair back, I succumb to my hairstyling incompetence and secure it in a basic ponytail before giving myself a final once-over in the mirror.

  My mind refuses to quiet, reminding me of how awkward I look, how much I’m going to stand out with the two of them, how much I hate sushi, and how much happier I’d be if I just stayed here.

  But I’ve already committed.

  The sound of a horn honking from the driveway is my indication that it’s too late to back out, even if I wanted to.

  “Oh, hey, she’s here,” Lauren calls from the living room.

  Everything happens so fast: grabbing my stained, faded canvas bag, stepping haphazardly into my worn flats, heading out into the brisk air, climbing into the back of Tessa’s little red Mercedes.

  The car is toasty and my jeans slide across the buttery black leather with ease.

  “Tessa, this is Meadow,” Lauren says as she climbs up front and secures her seatbelt. “My new roomie.”

  The friend turns to me, shiny dark hair curtaining her face until she brushes it away. Her eyes are an exaggerated round shape and the color of honey, slightly close together, but there’s no denying she’s beautiful.

  “So glad you could come with!” Tessa says.

  She studies me and I can imagine all the things she’s thinking right now, about my hair, my clothes, my slumped posture, my fidgeting hands. Of course, she doesn’t look like she’s judging me, but I know she is. Girls like her always do.

  “Thanks for the invite,” I manage to say, finding solace in the merciful expression on her face and wanting to believe it’s genuine. I almost think she feels sorry for me, and maybe that’s worse than judging me.

  Judge me all you want, but I don’t need your pity.

  Every part of me wants to curl up inside myself. I can handle one-on-one chats, for the most part, but as soon as more people are added to the mix I grow quieter, requiring an insurmountable amount of strength to be social.

  “Hope you like Taki,” Tessa says in a sing-song voice as she backs out of the drive. Once on the street, she presses a button on her steering wheel and some kind of weird music—the stuff Lauren listens to—begins to emanate from the sound system. The display in the front dash says it’s “Esthero – Half a World Away.”

  Fitting.

  Lauren and Tessa talk each other’s ears off up front. I’m just along for the ride, content to be an afterthought tucked away in the back. It’s easier to be accidentally forgotten than to be a bona fide third wheel.

  “Did you know that, Meadow?” Lauren turns toward me a few minutes later, brows meeting.

  “I’m sorry, what?” Shit. I completely spaced out their conversation.

  “About Professor Cutler?” she asks, referring to the English department’s chair who happens to teach the class I have with Lauren on Wednesday afternoons.

  “What happened?” I ask. “I didn’t hear you. I’m sorry.”

  She twists her entire body around, expression fading. “He had a stroke last week.”

  My world stops spinning for a moment despite the fact that I never much cared for Cutler. He laughs at his own off-color jokes, takes weeks to respond to emails, and goes off on far too many irrelevant tangents—mostly sports related—during lecture, but this is unfortunate.

  “They’re replacing him with Bristowe the rest of the semester,” Lauren a
dds.

  Holy shit.

  “Bristowe?” A smile curls my lips no matter how hard I try to fight it. Dr. Reed Bristowe taught three of my classes last year plus spent one semester filling in when my academic adviser was on maternity leave. He’s quite possibly one of the finest, most charismatic educators Meyer State has ever known. So humble, too. And if that wasn’t enough, he’s all dimples and dark hair and looking like he walked off the pages of a J. Crew fall/winter catalog with his tweed blazers, cognac loafers, thick-rimmed glasses, leather messenger bag, and slim-cut khakis.

  “Have you had him before?” Lauren asks.

  I nod. “A few times. You?”

  “Yep.” She turns to face the front, and the red letters of the Taki sign come into view a couple of blocks down the road. “He’s actually my faculty mentor for my senior capstone.”

  Of course she would be that lucky.

  I got stuck with Professor Margaret Blume, who should have retired at least thirty-two years ago but for whatever reason refuses. Our meetings typically consist of her shouting for me to speak up because she can’t hear and end with her forgetting everything we talked about in the thirty minutes prior.

  If she’s the reason tenure shouldn’t be a thing, Reed Bristowe is the reason it should. He’s everything a professor should be. Attentive, articulate, and always available.

  And his wife, Elisabeth? Equally amazing.

  I would know.

  I clean their house every Monday from eight to ten AM. But of course, I can’t share that. Sparkle Shine Cleaning Company has me under a strict, non-disclosure agreement. I’d hate to lose the Bristowe account.

  Or my job.

  “We’re here.” Tessa slides us into a parking spot by the front door and kills the engine. “I’m dying for a spicy tuna roll.”

  Lauren and Tessa link arms, which is a thing that girls do that I’ve never understood, and I follow them inside. In a matter of minutes, we’re seated in a cozy corner booth, sliding our jackets off and shoving our purses into the mix. My ratty canvas bag looks out of place next to their matching monogrammed totes. Story of my life. The only thing matching about us is our cheeks, flushed from our brief stint in the cold.