Roommate

by Sarina Bowen

  I’m so dead.

  Three minutes later, I’ve dressed and brushed my teeth. I don’t glimpse a clock until I crank the engine of my car, and the dashboard comes to life. And there it is—proof of my complete failure to behave like an adult. It’s 6:53 a.m.

  I’ll be arriving at work an hour and a half late. When the coffee shop opens in seven minutes, there won’t be any bagels. Or pretzels. Or muffins. The coffee won’t even be ready.

  I zoom down the hill and barely come to a stop in the gravel parking lot before flinging myself out of the car. When I reach the door, I’m face to face with Benito—one of Zara’s brothers.

  “Driving a little fast, there,” he says mildly.

  “Sorry,” I sputter, remembering that he’s a cop. I shove the key into the lock and wave him in after me. “I got bad news. I’m very, very late for work, and there aren’t any pastries.”

  “Oh shit,” he says, which pretty much sums it up.

  “Benito?” calls Zara from the kitchen. “There will be muffins in a half hour. It’s the best I can do.”

  My stomach quivers with fear.

  “Anything day-old?” Benito asks hopefully, walking over to the basket where we offer day-old pastries, individually wrapped, for half price.

  “Just take whatever you want!” Zara yells. I hear the oven door slam. “Roderick, get the coffee on. Hurry.”

  “I’ll do it,” Benito says. He slips behind the counter and turns on the grinder. “Go bake something. Your public needs you.”

  I duck into the kitchen and grab an apron. “Zara, I’m so damn sorry. My phone died.”

  “It happens,” she says tightly. “What can you bake the fastest?”

  I close my eyes and fight off a wave of pure panic. I cannot lose this job. I’ve got to stop being the guy who screws up every break people give him with some stupid decision or another. “Biscuits,” I decide. “Soda-leavened biscuits. And then scones.”

  “Okay, get to it,” she says. “I have to open up out front.”

  For the next twenty minutes, I’m the Tasmanian Devil cartoon character—spinning around the kitchen like a maniac. Cubed butter, flour, salt, and soda all land in a bowl. The mixer paddles are a blur. I fold in some shredded cheese and chives, and plop the dough onto baking trays at top speed. They go into the oven the minute Zara’s muffins are out. I burn my fingers when I dump the muffins from the pan before they’re ready and line them up on a tray.

  I rush the tray to the counter, where Zara avoids looking me in the eye. The customers are five deep because she’s working alone. Usually I work the morning coffee rush behind the counter to avoid exactly this situation. “You want me to help with…?”

  “Make the scones, please,” she says, her voice cool. “And we’ll need rolls for the lunch crowd.”

  I’m so screwed. But I head back into the kitchen and start a batch of scones anyway. The dishes are piling up in the sink, and a headache has moved in behind my eye sockets. I haven’t had any coffee or food, and after a few hours of frantic baking, my hands start to shake.

  “Roddy?” Zara calls. “Can you come out here for a minute?”

  “One second,” I croak and quickly wash the butter off my hands.

  When I arrive out front, Zara unties her apron. “I just need a five minute break, okay? Can you make a double cappuccino for this gentleman? Then start on the next in line.”

  “Sure. Of course.” I start the espresso drink as Zara disappears toward the women’s room. Or maybe she’s heading to the tiny office that’s also back there, perhaps to write me a half-week’s check and fire me.

  The next order is complicated, of course. The line grows longer while I make four fussy takeout drinks for a woman who’s treating her coworkers back at the office. When Zara comes back, she can tell I’m in the weeds.

  “Shall I help you work this line down?” I ask. “Or bake the rolls for lunch?”

  “The rolls,” she says, then immediately shakes her head. “No, the line.” It’s hard to make up your mind when you’re in an impossible situation.

  “Hey, are there any of those bagels left?” the next customer asks. “I promised my wife one of those new bagels you got.”

  “Not today, sorry,” Zara says.

  “They’ll be back, though,” I stammer, realizing how pointless it is to prove how indispensable you are if you then dispense with yourself for a crucial, two-hour period.

  I work down the coffee rush for a little while until I find myself elbow to elbow with Zara at the espresso machine. “I’m so sorry about this morning. It won’t happen again.”

  “It had better not,” she says tersely. “If you could have just called me to say you’d be late, I could have called someone else in to help. We look like idiots today.”

  “I know. And I feel terrible about the lost revenue.” Because that’s what a guy who’s hanging by a thread should do—point out how bad it really is.

  “Just…” Zara sighs. “Just don’t do it again, okay? I really need you to be reliable. Now go bake some bread so we don’t starve everyone to death at lunchtime. Can I help you?” she asks the next customer, essentially dismissing me.

  I step out from behind the hulking espresso machine to maneuver past Zara. But then I hear the next customer in line gasp.

  It’s my mother. “Roderick,” she whispers. “Never thought I’d see you here.”

  “Now you know,” I say icily. “Better buy your coffee elsewhere.”

  Zara’s jaw drops. I stalk into the kitchen and turn the water on at full force, spraying those dirty mixing bowls down as if they were on fire.

  I’m well aware that snapping at customers is just digging my hole a little deeper. But Zara is already mad at me. What difference could it make?

  This is how it works with me. One step forward, two steps back. I’m twenty-six years old now. At some point you run out of people to blame. It’s all on me. I never rein myself in when it really matters. And if I don’t overhaul my behavior, it’s always going to be this way.

  Ten minutes later, I’ve cleaned almost every pan and bowl in the kitchen when Zara leans over me and shuts the water off. “I’m just about to bake the rolls,” I tell her.

  “Screw the rolls,” she says. “Who was that lady? Your mother? You have her eyes.”

  “So I’ve been told.” I grab a dish towel and furiously swipe at a mixing bowl. “We’re not very close.”

  “Weren’t you staying with your parents?”

  I shake my head. “Not, uh, really. Renting from Kieran is better for everyone.”

  She frowns at me like I’m a puzzle she’s trying to solve.

  “It’s embarrassing, Zara,” I mutter. “My parents don’t approve of my so-called lifestyle.”

  She blinks. “Oh, screw her, then. She can keep her five bucks.”

  I shrug like it doesn’t matter to me. But it absolutely does.

  “Can’t believe I bitched at you in front of your mom.” Zara grabs a towel and dries off a cookie sheet. “I’m sorry. I was stressed out.”

  “I’m pretty sure I had it coming.” I still just want to crawl under a rock and hide. Sleeping in when it’s my job to open the kitchen? What a dick move.

  And I don’t think Zara would be half so understanding if she knew the whole story of where I woke up this morning. Kieran is like family to her, and I took advantage of him.

  “You need a break,” Zara says. “That’s the other thing I came back here to tell you.”

  “No, I’m fine,” I insist, even as my stomach gurgles. “You’d better get back out there. I’m baking the rolls next. They’ll be out of the oven in thirty minutes.”

  “Okay,” she says with a sigh. “Back to the trenches. It’s strangely busy today, with everyone asking for your wares. Those biscuits were dynamite, by the way. If that’s your go-to emergency recipe, we’ll all be okay.”

  I gave her a weak smile and get back to work.

  Lunch is a single misshapen
roll with butter. Today’s only blessing is that Kieran isn’t on the schedule. We could have used the help, but I’m not ready to look him in the eye yet. Not after last night.

  When the day is finally done, I get my things together and prepare to leave. My heart almost fails when I see that I have a text from Audrey. I’m expecting it to say: What did you do last night?

  But it doesn’t. There’s an address, followed by: See you whenever you can get here.

  Oh boy. I’d forgotten about Audrey’s invitation to the Shipley farm. Tonight, the family is doing some kind of late-season push to press apples into cider.

  “There will be food and a bonfire! And you can taste the cider,” Audrey had said.

  Last night, with some tequila in my bloodstream, going to the Shipleys’ place had seemed like a fine idea.

  It no longer does. And yet I know I have to go anyway. Besides, free food.

  I am so easily bought.

  Kieran

  My father grew up at Shipley Farms, pruning the apple trees and milking the cows. There’s a picturesque apple orchard, with the trees lined up in rows like soldiers, and Jersey cows in the distant meadow. On fall weekends, crowds of people pick apples and take selfies beside the scarecrows.

  Now the apple trees are stripped bare, but there’s still plenty of work to do. Once in a while—when my cousin Griff needs some extra pairs of hands—he’ll throw a bonfire party and invite all of us to eat dinner and make cider.

  I’ve hefted bushel after bushel of apples into the water bath. First the apples are washed and then they climb a mechanical ladder into a machine that grinds them up into mush, cores and all.

  This apple slurry is squirted through a hose into the baffles of the apple press. Then a hydraulic machine squishes the press, forcing cider to run out into a tank. When the pressing is done, all that’s left are caked sheets of apple cellulose, which are surprisingly dry. The cellulose is fed to animals or composted.

  When my grandparents ran the place, they only dabbled in cider. They had two sons—my dad and Griffin’s father, my uncle August. It was August who learned to make hard cider, and it was Griffin who figured out how to make it profitable.

  So here we are, squeezing apples into gold on a chilly night in November. My belly is full of Aunt Ruth’s pulled pork, and I’ve got another hour of work in me at least. The cider house smells like a cross between the inside of an apple pie and a wine cellar. This is the nicest place in the world.

  My cousin May arrives with another bushel in the wheelbarrow. “Griff? Is this the kind you wanted next?”

  Griffin stops what he’s doing and eyes the apples she’s brought in. They have ugly skin the color of a paper bag. Cider apples can be really funny-looking. “Yep. Thanks. Keep ’em coming.”

  I take the bushel from May and pour it into the water bath.

  “How’s your father?” May asks me, putting a hand on my arm.

  “The same,” I say, handing the empty container back to her. “Back surgery looks like hell.”

  “Oh, man,” she says. “I hope it’s over soon.”

  “You and me both.” I stir the apples in the water with a big wooden paddle, while the machine clanks away.

  Before I was born, my father decided to leave the Shipley orchard and raise beef. He was already having back trouble, and he had the idea that a beef operation would require less of his body than apples and dairy cows. So he found our land in Hardwick and his father helped him finance it.

  And it worked, I guess. He does all right. But I’ve always loved the orchard and my grandparents’ farm. August and Ruth always made me feel welcome here, even if I feel like an extraneous Shipley. An outsider. Whenever someone local hears my name, they say, “Oh, I’ve heard of that fancy cider. That’s your family?”

  I can never decide whether to say yes or no. Because it is and it isn’t. And the people who ask about it have no idea what they’re really asking.

  “Hey, I got a jam in the hose,” Griffin says. “Shut ’er down a minute?”

  I skirt the edge of the cider press and pull a lever that stops the machine from pulling new apples into the hopper.

  Griffin pokes at his ancient equipment, humming to himself. I glance out the doorway of the cider house. In the distance, the bonfire burns, and, in a nearby chair, my grandpa gestures wildly with his fork, telling one of his tales. My cousin Daphne is setting desserts out on a table.

  The fire’s orange flames are reflected in Audrey’s shiny hair as she walks toward the cider house, talking a mile a minute to someone beside her. “This is where the magic happens. We press apples from September through the springtime, but most of the heavy lifting happens between October and Christmas…”

  When they’re close enough that I can see who she’s talking to, my stomach does an unfamiliar swoop and dive. And then my skin flashes hot everywhere. Roderick. He’s here.

  The two of them pass by the door, as Audrey shows off the oak barrels that are used to age the cider. It isn’t until a moment later that I finally remember to breathe.

  This is new for me. And I don’t mean getting naked with a guy and coming in his hand, although that’s new, too. The really new thing is feeling so stirred up and wild inside.

  Today I had the day off from the bakery, but I spent all my free time thinking about Roderick’s mouth on mine and the heat we made between our bodies.

  It wasn’t just that I liked it—which I totally did. It’s that I didn’t realize I was capable of letting go like that. He thrilled me with his bold hands and wicked mouth. He surprised me with his tight, fit body and his flashing, desperate eyes.

  But I surprised myself even more. First I told him what I wanted. That never happens. And when he showed up to give it to me, I made the most of every second. I kissed him like the world was burning down, and I held nothing back.

  Before—during every other one of my admittedly scant sexual experiences—I’d felt like an outsider looking in, an observer in my own life. Should I put my hand here? Does she want me to unzip this? Does that moan mean I should stop or keep going?

  Last night was on another level entirely. Never mind that I’d never gotten off with a guy before. Lust made me confident. Heat made it easy. I’ve never kissed anyone so deeply that the taste of him became part of me. I wanted it to last forever.

  I want it again right now.

  “All set,” Griff says, snapping me out of my dirty reverie.

  We go back to work, but the next few minutes are torture, because Roderick’s nearby, and I’m stuck feeding apples into this machine. Lord knows what I’d do right now if my hands weren’t busy. Run outside and hump his leg, probably.

  “These are the fermentation tanks,” Audrey says, continuing her tour. “And this big thing is the cider press. One person can run it, but it’s better with two or three…”

  I can’t stand it anymore. I have to turn around and see him in the flesh. And there he is, flashing a smile at Audrey, holding an apple slice that she probably cut for him so he could experience the tannins in a cider apple. His cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and he’s wearing black jeans that skim over his trim hips and a wool sweater in a cranberry color. I could lift it right over his head…

  We lock eyes. Immediately his smile drops, and the look on his face is guilty.

  Uh-oh.

  “Hey guys,” Audrey says. “I’m here to announce that dessert is served. Shut ’er down after this batch, yeah?”

  “Sure, baby,” Griff says. “Save me a piece of pie. Roderick—want to press this batch?”

  His eyes flick toward me for a split second before he looks at Griff. “Sounds like fun, but I told your sister that I’d help out in the kitchen.”

  “If you say so.” Griffin shrugs. “Pour the man a cider, Audrey.”

  “Don’t you worry, I will.” She gives us a wave, and the two of them disappear, with Roderick in the lead. He couldn’t get out of here fast enough.

  I paddle more of the flo
ating apples toward the ladder and try to absorb this disappointment. Roderick is avoiding me. Although maybe he’s just being discreet. There are a lot of people around. And I really don’t need my family asking questions.

  Those guilty eyes, though. I don’t like it. What happened last night was a revelation to me. But maybe it wasn’t for him.

  I need to find out.

  Outside, Griffin throws another log on the bonfire, and my cousin Dylan picks up his fiddle and begins to play. I glance around for Roderick, but he isn’t anywhere in sight.

  Someone hands me a plate with a slice of Aunt Ruth’s apple-cranberry pie. I use the fork to slide a big bite into my mouth, and the tart apples burst against my tongue. This is why people come to Vermont—the romantic fools, anyway. They come for the food and the hot cider and the smell of pine in the wind.

  Even on my worst days—when I want to scream from the rut that my life is in—I never really consider going somewhere else. I may have problems. I may not belong to this place. But I’d like to, and I don’t think that feeling will ever go away.

  The screen door bangs, and I look up to see Roddy standing there, hands in his pockets. His shoulders are square, and his head is held high. He’s a confident man by all outward appearances. Even so, when I look at him, I see someone who’s a little lost like me.

  Maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe I only see what I want to see.

  Look over here, I silently ask of him. Look at me.

  But he hops off the stoop and walks over to talk to May and Audrey.

  Roderick

  “Taste this, Roddy,” Audrey says, passing me a tiny cup. “You’re driving, right? That’s why I gave you such a small pour.”

  “I am driving,” I admit. “And not looking to get drunk anyway.” Not after last night’s fiasco. “But look at me, getting out two nights in one week,” I say, sipping my excellent cider. The flavor is deep and a little bitter. It’s like nothing I’ve tasted before.