The Perfect Roommate

by Minka Kent

  The two of them aren’t even looking at the menu. They must come here often.

  “Know what you want?” Tessa asks me as she reaches for one of the ice waters our server has just delivered.

  No, I don’t know what I want. We’ve been here all of twelve seconds.

  “Oh. Um.” I grab a menu and try not to panic. If I order miso soup and seaweed salad, Lauren’s going to know I lied about liking sushi. And if I order sushi, I’m going to throw up.

  So it comes to this.

  “I’m going to run to the restroom quick,” Lauren says, sliding out of the booth and leaving her bag with Tessa. “Would one of you order me a Taki roll and a salmon roll?”

  “Yeah, babe,” Tessa says. Her gaze drifts across the table. She’s studying me again, which makes it difficult for me to concentrate on the task at hand … figuring out what the hell I’m going to order. “You don’t like sushi, do you?”

  Oh, she’s astute, this one. Not ditzy and oblivious like Lauren.

  “What?” My heart plummets. All the letters on the laminated pages begin to blur together, and the ones that don’t aren’t making any sense. I can’t concentrate like this, under all of this pressure.

  “It’s okay,” she assures me, half-laughing. Her hand reaches across the table, covering mine. My body stiffens. It’s weird to touch someone else. “I can tell when someone’s just being polite. Order the Sunday roll. It’s cooked.”

  Exhaling, I’m blanketed in relief. “I didn’t want to be rude earlier.”

  She waves her hand, dismissing my sentiment. “So not a big deal.”

  A minute later the server stops by to grab our orders, and Tessa requests three mizuwari martinis before I can protest that I don’t drink and if I did, I certainly wouldn’t order a cocktail that costs a ridiculous fourteen dollars a glass.

  Shit.

  “How long have you and Lauren known each other?” I ask when Lauren returns. Can’t help but feel I’m letting my guard down, if only by an inch. But it’s for the greater good. This entire arrangement is going to be easier if I like them and they like me—if only on a basic acquaintance kind of level.

  They exchange looks, like they’re trying to communicate telepathically.

  “Since freshman year, I think?” Lauren answers first.

  “Sophomore,” Tessa corrects her. “We met at Anthro. The store, not the class. I was working. She was shopping. Story of my life.”

  “Oh, stop.” Lauren swipes at Tessa’s shoulder and they laugh. “You worked there maybe three months.” She turns to me. “Then she met Rich, her sugar daddy.”

  Tessa’s jaw hangs and she faces me. “She’s messing with you. I don’t have a sugar daddy.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh with them or sit here in silence until I determine where the hell this conversation is going. From the sound of it, I’d say there’s some kind of inside joke happening that I’m obviously not a part of, which would make it even more awkward if I were to play along and pretend I find any of this amusing.

  “My dad invented this app,” she says, rolling her eyes like she’s told the story a million times. “Sold it to Google a few years ago.”

  So that explains the flashy red Mercedes. Her family is stupid loaded. New money types.

  Reaching for my water, I smile and nod and sip because I don’t know what I’m supposed to say. Congratulations on being set for life? Nice? Cool? Good for you?

  “It’s the neatest story. Tell her, Tessa,” Lauren says, nudging her friend. She turns to me. “It’s so inspiring.”

  “My dad had lost his job a few years before that,” she says. “He worked in IT at this call center and all their jobs were shipped overseas completely out of the blue. Our town is literally in Middle of Nowhere, South Dakota, and the best work he could find was the local lube and filter connected to the Conoco in the next town over. No one else would take him. Said he was too overqualified or some shit. Anyway, every night, he’d come home and teach himself coding. After a while, he built this app … someone at Google caught wind of it and made him an offer he couldn’t refuse. He’s been spoiling us rotten ever since.”

  “Aw,” I say, looking at Tessa in a completely new light. She isn’t some silver-spooned princess. She’s someone I might actually be able to respect, even if I am the tiniest bit envious of her Cinderella story.

  Her father sounds like a real stand-up guy. Nothing like mine.

  My dad was a small-town prick who peaked in high school and bailed when I was six after meeting some homewrecker in an AOL chatroom. I spent the years that followed hating that unfaithful bastard. Mom spent the years that followed going through boyfriends the way girls like Lauren go through shoes, switching them out with the seasons, occasionally getting attached to a particular pair and keeping them until the soles have worn and it’s time to replace them all over again.

  Her newest bedfellow is a contractor named Bug.

  Not Bud. Not Buzz.

  Bug.

  As in the disgusting things that splatter on windshields and leave their guts everywhere.

  Supposedly his real name is Conrad Sterling Pierce, III. No joke. A name like that belongs to royalty or some Southern, old-moneyed bureaucrat. Not some beer-bellied, Busch Light-addicted, lazy-eyed drywall technician.

  Anyway, I’m not sure why he goes by Bug, and I’ve never cared to ask.

  Last time I saw him was during Christmas break, when I came home to find he’d turned my bedroom into his “computer room” where he could keep the “rig” my mom bought him. Funny how she couldn’t help me out when my Honda needed new tires, but she could scrounge up enough nickels to buy him a two-thousand-dollar gaming system so he could play League of Legends all hours of the night with his smelly, overweight Doberman snoring at his feet.

  I slept on the sofa for a few days, long enough to stick around for Christmas dinner with Grandma, then I hightailed it back to campus like my life depended on it. The sagging bed in my shithole studio was a million times more appealing than that nicotine-scented futon they use for a living room sofa.

  “Should we cheers?” Lauren asks when our drinks arrive. I envy her blithe, light-as-air tone, the ease at which she smiles. She’s always fucking smiling, like she doesn’t have a concern in the world. And how could she? She’s never known hunger or homelessness. She’s never shopped at the Salvation Army or driven on bald tires for an entire winter. Lauren Wiedenfeld has everything a girl could ever dream of.

  Of course she’s happy.

  As soon as Lauren lifts her martini glass with her perfect, manicured fingers, Tessa follows suit. Both of them glance toward me, waiting, smiling. I can’t help but smile back at them, their happiness almost contagious. And I’d be lying if I refused to admit being treated like one of them, being included is a pleasant change of pace.

  Lifting my glass, I meet theirs.

  Three clinks.

  Three sips.

  Three … friends?

  I’ve never had girlfriends before, but when I look at Lauren and Tessa, I kind of think it might not be so bad? That it might not hurt to try their world on for size?

  Never know. I just might end up loving it.

  Three

  Elisabeth Bristowe rests her hand on her belly before her palm circles it with the kind of tender gentleness only impending motherhood could impart.

  “Tea?” she asks as I wipe the marble counters in the recently refurbished kitchen of the nineteenth-century Victorian she shares with her husband. “I bought some Earl Grey … I know how much you love it.”

  Before I have a chance to decline—we’re not supposed to accept gifts of any kind from clients—she’s waddling toward the Keurig machine and dropping a pod inside. I’d mentioned, briefly, several weeks ago that I wasn’t a fan of coffee, that Earl Grey was my hot drink of choice.

  And she remembered. She didn’t have to. But she did. And that speaks to the kind of person she is. Thoughtful. Compassionate. Detail-oriented to a
fault.

  This woman doesn’t miss a thing.

  “Oh, did I tell you? It’s a girl.” Elisabeth hands me a navy-blue mug with a copper handle and some cheesy saying about coffee on the side. Her mouth pulls into the widest grin. She wanted a girl. She told me that once, in confidence. She wanted a little girl more than anything in the world.

  I couldn’t be happier for her.

  “A girl? Congratulations!” I say. And I’m truly excited for them. Picturing Reed with a baby daughter wrapped in his strong arms warms me from the inside out. He’s going to be an incredible father, the kind that will take her to the library on the weekends instead of planting her in front of an iPad. The kind that will take her on nature walks instead of dumping her at the child care center of the local gym. And he’ll read her books. God, will he read her books. Good ones. Time-tested ones. None of those cutesy anyone-can-be-a-children’s-book-author kinds with the God-awful illustrations. “Any names picked out?”

  Elisabeth takes a seat at the kitchen table, in front of the laptop that contains her newest work-in-progress. She’s a novelist. The next hot thing, if you ask me. Women’s fiction, mostly. Nothing fluffy or meaningless. Her books are the kind that gut you, that rip out your entrails before putting you back together. They have substance, staying with you for days, sometimes weeks, like a haunting melody playing on a loop in your head. They don’t use cheap tricks or plot twists and they’re not formulaic, mindless entertainment meant for the masses.

  I would know.

  She has me critique them for her from time to time, and she actually takes my feedback into consideration. She even changed the ending of her last book simply because I told her I wasn’t feeling it.

  “We have a shortlist,” she says. “Reed wants to name her after his grandmother, Adelaide. I’d like something a little less old-fashioned.”

  I don’t tell her that I think Adelaide is an adorable name. And that I can picture her already. Reed’s dark hair and deep dimples. Elisabeth’s hazel, almond-shaped eyes.

  “What’s at the top of your list?” I ask.

  “I really like Mabry,” she says. “It was my mother’s maiden name.”

  Was. My heart breaks for a second. A year ago, I’d come in to find Elisabeth standing over the sink, tears in her eyes. It was then that she told me about the death of her mother, Cindy, who’d raised her as a single mom, working two jobs just to put Elisabeth through school. In the end, Cindy died sick and penniless, her death both a burden and a relief on her daughter, who’d been her primary caregiver those last years.

  Elisabeth was wracked with guilt, broken hearted, but there was the tiniest hint of hope in her eyes. It was as if she could finally move forward, finally remember her mother as she once was and not as a frail bag of bones who couldn’t remember her own name.

  “Mabry Adelaide would be cute,” I say, spraying the far side of the kitchen island with all-natural cleaner, though now that I think of it, I’ve probably already done this section.

  It’s easy to get distracted around Elisabeth. She talks to me like I’m a friend—and I suppose we are, in a way, though she’s not the kind of person I’d call up when I’m bored. Maybe that’s the true marker of genuine friendship? Either way, most clients aren’t home when I come to clean, and if they are, they pretend I’m invisible—which is fine with me. But not Elisabeth.

  Then again, she’s a novelist who works from home and spends all day in front of a computer. I’m sure she’s starved for human interaction and I happen to be convenient.

  But I don’t want to think like that. I respect her. A lot. And I like what we have—whatever it is.

  I want to keep it that way.

  “I suppose we’ll have to compromise,” Elisabeth says with a wink. “Anyway, we’ve got four months to go yet. Plenty of time to narrow it down.”

  The gentle scuff of footsteps in the foyer sends a quick jerk to my heart. I didn’t know we weren’t alone. A moment later, Reed appears in the kitchen doorway, attention directed toward his glowing wife. Without wasting a beat, he goes to her, bending to kiss the top of her head.

  “You’re going to be late,” she tells him, lifting her hand to cradle his strong jaw.

  “And it’s all your fault,” he says.

  They share a knowing chuckle, and I imagine them tangled in their red flannel bedsheets this morning, their bodies melded, and it makes me blush.

  The Bristowes are everything I hope to have someday and proof that not all married people are selfish assholes who don’t take their vows seriously. These two are clearly in it for the long haul, and that’s a fact that puts my cynical heart at ease every time I see them together.

  “Meadow,” he says, turning to me and straightening his tie. I love the way he says my name—enunciated, with intention. Like I mean something. “How’s your morning?”

  “G-great,” I say. God, I hate when I stammer, but that intense, steely-blue gaze of his makes it hard for me to think straight sometimes. Clearing my throat, I add, “I heard you’re taking over for Cutler’s World Lit class.”

  His expression dissipates. Maybe I should’ve offered my condolences to Cutler’s tragic situation first.

  “So sad,” I add quickly. “He’s one of my favorite professors. I hope he recovers quickly.”

  Professor Bristowe’s mouth forms a straight line and his hands rest on his hips. “Right, well, so far his prognosis doesn’t sound hopeful. They’re already talking about long-term care.”

  My hand covers my chest. “I’m so sorry to hear that.”

  “You’re in World Lit, I take it?” he asks.

  “I am.” I crumple the paper towel in my hand before tossing it in the trash.

  Reed passes me, grabbing his signature leather messenger bag off the back of a kitchen chair before slinging it over his shoulder. His spicy cologne fills the kitchen, mingling with the lemon counter polish I’ve been spraying. “Then I’ll see you on Wednesday.”

  He offers a tepid smile, which isn’t like him, but maybe he feels he can’t be his usual charming self after discussing the near-death of his close colleague. But it was kind of him to say my name, to treat me like a regular fixture in his life and not some nameless face he sees wandering around the English department.

  “Lis,” he says to his wife. She glances away from her laptop and up toward him. “I love you.”

  She blows him a kiss and waves her fingers. And the second he’s gone, she exhales. “Sorry about that. He’s been really shaken up lately with the whole Cutler thing, and he’s worried about taking on another class when his load was already maxed. He missed our birthing class last week. I think he feels like he’s failing at everything right now.”

  Reed Bristowe could never fail. He’s too hard on himself.

  “That’s a lot for one person to deal with all at the same time,” I say.

  “Exactly what I told him. He needs to cut himself a break. Just seeing him all stressed out makes me stressed out.” Elisabeth adjusts her screen before placing her hands above the keys. “Oh, hey. Think you might have time to read for me this weekend? If I sent it to you by Friday?”

  I glance up from the sink I’ve been polishing for the last two minutes. Every time one of Elisabeth’s books drops in my lap, it’s like Christmas morning. At least, the kind of Christmas mornings you see in the movies. My version of them wasn’t exactly textbook. The number of years my mother cared to put up a tree I can count on one hand.

  “Absolutely,” I say, forcing myself to remain calm so I don’t accidentally fangirl all over her like Kathy Bates’ character in Misery. “Looking forward to it.”

  Grabbing my cleaning caddy, I head to the next room and get busy with the feather duster. This house is full of antiques, having been in the Bristowe family for generations, and I pride myself in never having broken a single piece—unlike the girl before me. I take care of their things as if they were my own, and Elisabeth and Reed appreciate that. They’ve said so, many ti
mes.

  But it’s my pleasure.

  They’re good people.

  And I would do anything for them. All they’d have to do is ask.

  Four

  “What size are you?”

  I glance up from my homework-covered bed to find Lauren standing in my doorway Tuesday night. I haven’t seen her since Monday afternoon, when I was coming back from work and she was leaving for class. And while I heard her rustling around this morning, I stayed in my room, hiding out until I heard the gentle slam of the front door. I don’t want to wear out my welcome. I don’t want to be everywhere, all the time. I don’t want to annoy her.

  “What?” I ask, though I know what she said. Heard her loud and clear.

  “I’m going through my closet,” she says with a sigh as she leans against the door frame. “I’m in a purging mood. Was going to see if you wanted anything before I threw it out.”

  “You don’t consign?”

  Lauren’s nose wrinkles. “I don’t have time. Besides, I heard they only give you, like, fifty cents per item. Hardly worth the gas it takes to drive over there. I’d rather give these to someone I know. So … what size are you?”

  I lift a shoulder. I don’t know what size I am. I’ve always worn whatever fits, and whether it’s baggy or tight is usually secondary to whether or not I can afford it.

  “Stand up,” she says, making her way across the room. Her gaze scans the length of me. “I bet we’re the same size.”

  No way. There’s no way. She’s lithe and leggy with a defined waist and pointy shoulders. I’m … shapeless. Straight hips. Gangly arms. Knobby knees. Shitty posture. I’m not blessed with the kind of physique that begs to be shown off in tight sweaters and ass-lifting jeans.

  “Here. Come with.” Lauren’s hand wraps around my wrist and she pulls me into her room, which is scented like lavender sachets and expensive perfume, and she steers me into her walk-in closet.