by Tash Skilton
“Just . . . why would I do that?” I sputter at Sebastian. “And without telling her?”
I have your bed still though, she writes.
And I only have one second to feel a small sense of relief before an image comes through that is so horrible, I actually drop my phone. Sebastian heroically catches it before it smashes all over the tiled kitchen floor. He looks at it and does a double take.
“Is that . . .”
“Leeches,” I squeak out. “All over my bed.”
“Um . . . she wrote you another message.” He holds the phone up for me to read.
I thought “relaxed leeches, relaxed client.” But I can take them off and have the bed ready for you by tonight. (Off-topic: do you think I can trademark the “relaxed leeches” line?)
I just stare at Sebastian from in between my fingers, shaking my head in horror.
He claps his hands together. “Right. So who’s ready to go to a mattress store?”
* * *
“Firm. But is it too firm?” Sebastian asks, his voice a little flattened from his prone position.
“There’s no such thing as too firm,” I say, staring at the ceiling from the mattress next to him.
“That’s what she said!” Sebastian says.
I flip over to my side to arch an eyebrow at him. “Really?”
“Sorry,” he says with a shrug. “I forgot you weren’t Matty for a second.”
“Story of my life,” I say as I get up from my mattress. “This one’s definitely a sinkhole.” I walk over and press my hand down on the one Sebastian’s lying on. “Hmmmm.”
“Well, hop on in and give it a test drive.” He pats the spot next to him but makes no move to get up.
Right. It’s just like I’m Matty, I think, and lie down next to him. My first thought is that queen beds are smaller than you think, especially when a long-limbed person you’re determined to keep friend zoned is giving off body heat mere inches away from you. My second thought: “This is pretty perfect.”
Sebastian glances down at the tag under his elbow. “And it’s on sale.”
“So it just upgraded to perfect.” I press one more hand down on the mattress. “Unless you really think it’s too firm?”
“Well, it’s your mattress. You’re the one who’ll be sleeping in it. Well, you and . . . Ennis.”
And right on cue, my phone buzzes. I look down. “Speak of the devil,” I mutter.
Sebastian clears his throat and sits up, swinging his legs off the bed. “Do you want him to come try it out too?”
“That won’t be necessary.” I don’t add, Because I’ll be shocked if my relationship with a new mattress doesn’t outlast this romantic one.
I get the salesman’s attention. “We’ll take this one.”
“Oh, great,” he says as he checks his tablet. “Our soonest delivery date is Wednesday. Is that okay?”
“Guess it has to be,” I say with a smile. “Thanks.”
“I’ll start ringing you up,” he says as he scans the tag.
I turn to Sebastian. “So, Ennis wants to hang out tonight and I was thinking, maybe he could come over and hang out with the two of us.”
“Uh, like a third wheel thing?” Sebastian asks, looking confused.
“No! Of course not. Just a meeting my friends thing. He actually hasn’t. Met any of my friends, I mean. Except Celeste, but you know, ‘friend’ might be too strong a word there.”
“Oh, okay then. Sure.”
But he definitely doesn’t look too sure about it so I add, “Maybe you can invite Heather, too? Sort of like a double date?”
His face lights up. “That could be fun. I could make dinner!”
“Or we could order in,” I offer.
“We could, but there’s a garlic noodle dish with ginger soy glazed chicken that I’ve been dying for you to try. Works great with the egg noodles Sam got us too.” He adds, almost as an afterthought, “And I promised Heather I’d cook for her.”
“All right. Let’s do it then.”
We smile at each other.
“And how will you guys be paying?” the salesman asks.
“Uh. Me. I’ll be paying,” I say as I dig through my purse for a credit card. “We’re just roommates,” I tell him unnecessarily.
“Sure, great,” the salesman says as he swipes my card, completely unbothered by whatever our relationship is or isn’t.
* * *
“Okay, how can I help?” I ask as soon as I’ve washed my hands at the kitchen sink.
“Help?” Sebastian says. “No, see, I’m supposed to be cooking for you.”
“You’re supposed to be cooking for Heather,” I correct. “And my boyfriend. So, yes, I’d like to help.”
Sebastian eyes me skeptically.
“What?” I ask, mock-offended. “You think I can’t cook?”
“No, of course I don’t . . .” he says quickly.
“Well, you’d be right. Honestly, the omelet was the extent of my skills. But I can learn. I’m a quick study.”
He gives me a grin. “Well, the vegetables were very well chopped. So if you’d like to mince the garlic and slice the green onions, that’d be great.”
“Sure,” I say, taking the vegetables out of the bag and placing them on the cutting board Sebastian has already gotten out for me. But as I pick up his übersharp chef’s knife, I realize there’s already a problem. “Uh . . . there’s a difference between mincing and slicing?”
“A little. Let me show you.” He takes the knife, puts the flat surface on the garlic, and then uses the heel of his hand to whack the knife down. When he removes the knife, the peel slides right off, like a magic trick. Then he rocks the knife back and forth across the clove, somehow making tiny, perfectly square pieces in the process.
I have no idea why but his precision is . . . sexy?
What is wrong with you, Nina? It’s literally tiny garlic. Tiny garlic is not sexy.
“And then with the slicing, just curl your fingers under to make sure they’re out of the way. About this size is good.” He demonstrates with a few strokes on the green onion, making small, bright green cylinders, then turns the knife handle toward me.
“Got it,” I say, as I take the knife from him, careful for our fingers not to brush. It’s obviously been too long since Ennis and I had sex if mincing is making me all hot and bothered.
But then he slides behind me to get to the stovetop and his shirt brushes against my back anyway and somehow, the sliding of soft fabric between us is even more electric than if we actually touched.
We’re just roommates. I echo in my head what I said to the salesman. And ex-best friends trying to return to that.
“If you could do six cloves of garlic and four green onions, that would be perfect,” he says. “I need some for my chicken marinade, too.”
“You got it,” I say as I slowly start to chop. There’s no way I have Sebastian’s speed, but I can try to have his accuracy.
In the ten minutes it takes me to get the vegetables ready, he’s already mixed up two different sauces and has them bubbling on the stove. When I ask him for another task, he asks if I’m up for making the noodles.
“Pasta! That I can do!” I say with slightly more enthusiasm than required. He laughs at me. “I just don’t want you to think I’m totally inept in the kitchen.”
“I think you’re perfect at everything,” Sebastian says while checking on his marinade and therefore not looking at me.
He takes a spoonful of his sauce, blows on it, and holds it out to me. I taste it. It’s sticky, sweet, and completely delicious, of course.
“Ohmygod. Wow,” I say as he grins at me. “Heather is going to flip.”
He nods and gets back to work.
Once the pasta is drained, Sebastian puts the marinade in a Ziploc in the fridge. “Got to give that half an hour.” He looks at the Jeff the Warlock clock that we moved from his bedroom to the kitchen wall last week. “They’ll be here in about an hour,
right?”
I nod. “Plenty of time to get ready.”
We’re facing each other, and he leans over to reach behind me. It takes me a second to realize he’s just wiping some sauce off the counter.
“Right. So I’ll get to it then,” I say as I head to my room. “I already took a shower this morning, so the hot water’s all yours,” I call out behind me.
“I know. Thanks.”
I close the door to my room, and rummage around in my suitcase and closet for something to wear. (Note to self: Go to the Salvation Army to see if I can salvage my own dresser and desk, or at least find some cheap replacements.)
It’s a date. But a casual at-home date, I think. My hand goes to a flowy top with little embroidered flowers at the collar and a pair of black ankle-cut jeans. But my boyfriend is going to be there. And, judging by my abject horniness, I probably do need to get laid at some point soon. I move my hands away from the jeans to a short denim skirt, eyeing a pair of black espadrilles at the bottom of my closet that I know make my legs look at least two inches longer than they are.
Heather will be there too.
And it’s this thought which, inexplicably, leads my hand over to the coral dress I bought on a whim from ModCloth’s sale section. It has a sweetheart neckline that dips just low enough to reveal a hint of cleavage, a slightly flared skirt that’s perfect for a confidence-boosting mirror twirl if not actual dancing (which I doubt is happening tonight), and a thin gold belt that cinches in at the perfect place on my body. Its color complements my olive-toned skin (I once went on three dates with an artist who explained why, chromatically, the green undertones of my skin pair well with anything in the red family). The hem of the skirt comes up about an inch above my knee which means that, with the espadrilles, yup, mile-high legs. Or, at the very least, kilometer-high, if we’re thinking in Sebastian terms.
He’s already out of his room by the time I emerge from mine. I hear his breath hitch when he sees me, and I pretend not to notice, focusing on clasping a statement necklace filled with chunky emerald-colored stones.
I look up when I’m done. He’s dressed in jeans and a soft hunter-green T-shirt that were clearly picked to bring out his hazel eyes.
“That’s a great dress,” he says as he opens his George Foreman Grill to check on the chicken. “You look great.”
“Thanks,” I say, just as the door buzzes. “I’ll get it.”
I press the intercom, hear Ennis’s voice, and buzz him in. Then I wait for him by the door while Sebastian continues to futz around in the kitchen.
“Hi!” I say enthusiastically when I see Ennis.
“Wow,” he says, looking me over. “You look great!”
“Thanks!” I say as I fling myself into his arms, trying not to overanalyze why those same exact words coming out of Sebastian’s mouth gave me more of a zing than they did when my boyfriend said them.
I kiss Ennis and then walk him over to Sebastian. “A more formal, non-parking lot introduction is probably in order. Sebastian, Ennis. Ennis, Sebastian.”
Ennis grins and shakes Sebastian’s hand; then he nods his head toward the cutout Lucinda in the corner of the living room. “Aren’t you going to more formally introduce me to your girlfriend too?”
Sebastian gives a tight smile. “Good one, man. Hey, Nina, would you mind getting the salad out of the fridge?”
“You made a salad?” I ask, perplexed. “When?”
“I threw it together while you were getting ready. It’s a really simple one,” he says.
It looks anything but when I take it out. Feta cheese, a perfectly sliced egg, and walnuts all artfully arranged over a bed of romaine in a teal ceramic bowl.
The doorbell rings just as I’ve grabbed the bowl and Sebastian is heating up the noodles in his garlic sauce.
“I’ll get it,” Ennis volunteers.
I take the salad to the table, then go to the cabinets to get plates and silverware. I’m not looking when the door opens but I hear Heather’s voice.
“Oh, hello,” she says to Ennis. “Are you Sebastian’s roommate?”
“Not me,” he says. “That would be her.” I turn around in time to see him pointing at me.
Heather follows the trail until she’s looking me full in the face, and I can tell she recognizes me, even though we only saw each other a few times before I made my dramatic exit from Ithaca.
“Oh. Huh,” she says. “Hello. Nina, right?”
CHAPTER 19
SEBASTIAN
“Tell us more about the scene you were both in.” Nina twirls her fork around the last noodle in her bowl and lifts it to her mouth, her eyes darting between mine and Heather’s.
“Viewer discretion is advised,” I warn. “This may not be appropriate dinner talk.”
“Sex or violence?”
“Both!” Heather announces cheerfully. I grin at her.
“Wait, oh, no,” Nina says. “Does someone get beheaded during a BJ?”
“No, but you’re in the right ballpark,” I reply. “Shit, I sounded like Matty again.”
“How is Matty?” Heather asks, leaning forward. She’s wearing a Henley shirt tucked into wide-legged jeans with fringe at the bottom, as though she drove down from Laurel Canyon, circa 1971, to join us for dinner. I like it.
“He’s good,” I tell her. “He moved in with his lady love recently, hence my rooming with . . .” I indicate Nina and also turn back to Nina to finish answering her question: “Let me put it this way: CoRaB’s tradition of depressing nudity is alive and well.”
“So you’re saying there will be a lot of confused boners when it airs.”
“Every CoRaB boner is a confused boner. Your boss should use that in the promos: ‘If you miss being disturbed by your own reactions, the wait is over.’”
Nina laughs and my heartrate skyrockets. Will her laugh ever stop feeling like a prize? I tear my eyes from Nina and pivot toward my date.
“Food all right?” I ask Heather, in what I hope is a curious tone of voice rather than a concerned one. I can’t help noticing that half of her meal remains, in stark contrast to everyone else’s cleaned-out bowls.
“Could’ve used more garlic,” she says.
“Oh. Really?”
“I’m kidding. It’s good, thank you. I just had a big lunch. Hey, remember Moosewood?”
“From Rocky and Bullwinkle?” Ennis cuts in. It’s the most energized I’ve ever seen him.
“This great vegetarian place in Ithaca, where we went to school,” Heather explains.
“Seb swore to never go,” Nina says.
“Did he?” says Heather, before glancing back at me. “We went there, what, twice a week?”
“I saw the error of my ways,” I admit. “Although keep in mind the only vegetarian meal I’d had before that was . . .”
“The veggie sub at Subway.” Nina again. Our eyes meet and I wonder if she’s remembering the look on my face when I bit into that limp lettuce.
“So Nina, did you move out here the same time as Sebastian and the guys?” Heather asks.
“No, I only got here about two months ago. I’m still in denial about the lack of public transportation.”
“Oh my gosh, same. I miss the ‘L’ so badly. That’s what we call the subway in Chicago.”
“What made you decide to head west?” Nina asks. I’m grateful that she’s chatting so warmly with Heather. I should probably return the favor with Ennis, but I have zero interest in anything he has to say, and I’m not a good enough actor to pretend otherwise.
“I’m not sure how long I’ll stay . . .” Heather begins.
“Famous last words,” says Ennis.
“. . . but it seemed important that I give it a try before I turn thirty, and see if I can make in it in film or TV. If not, I’ll head home and keep up my theater work.”
I glance at Heather’s half-eaten bowl of food again, wondering if she’s avoiding carbs and wishing I’d known beforehand. “Shoot, I should’ve as
ked if you have any dietary restrictions. Is your team . . . ?”
“Starving me?”
An actress’s team, I’ve learned over my years in LA, consists of, but is not limited to: agent, manager, publicist, stylist, Reiki healer, hypnotist, “exhaustion expert” (dealer . . . of . . . let’s call them vitamin B12 shots), and masseuse. The first four typically put pressure on talent to lose weight, and the last four enable it. Either way, it’s not a topic that women in showbiz can avoid.
“No, though an agent I met with on Friday casually dropped the info that, contrary to popular belief, people don’t need all their ribs.”
“Jesus!” I shout and Nina and Ennis, who’ve been talking to each other, look over.
Heather laughs and points at me. “Gotcha. Again. I’ve never had the ‘ribs are overrated’ chat because I decided early on to niche myself in best friend roles instead of leading lady. That way, I’m allowed a quirk, and my quirk is ‘Looks like an adult woman.’”
“Excellent. I’m glad they’re not pressuring you. You look amazing by the way.” I reach for her hand across the table and squeeze it. Her manicure’s impeccable and her skin is smooth and cool to the touch. “But then you always did.”
She seems pleased. “Thanks, Sebastian. You too. Wait— unless your team’s trying to starve you, and the reason you asked me was a veiled cry for help?”
“I am no longer in possession of a team, thank God. Or at least, they no longer send me out for anything.”
“Was your agent good to you in general, though? My manager in Chicago’s been setting me up with meetings, and I’m always curious to hear about who to trust and who to avoid.”
“I basically parted ways with them, but I’d be happy to refer you.”
“Thanks. I’d appreciate that.”
Heather and I continue to hold hands across the table. It felt natural when I reached for her, but now it feels forced, as though we’re back at the costume party and I’ve been paired up with her for reasons that don’t entirely make sense.