by Sara Ney
“What dorm are you in?”
“I’m not in the dorms. I still live at home.”
“How do you still live at home?” I remember her voice sounded as shocked as the expression on her face. Live at home? Why the hell would you do that? it said.
Because I thought my family needed me there, and I’ve only just now realized my being home simply enables my mother to gallivant around and do whatever she damn well pleases while I pick up the slack.
“I’m local. It only takes me fifteen minutes to get here, so to save money, I’m not living in the dorms.”
“Oh.” She paused, still not convinced living at home as an adult made any sense at all. “How is that working out for you?”
It was working out…until it wasn’t, and here I am schlepping boxes into a house with two people I’ve only known a day so I can finally break free and have some independence.
The room I’m renting is actually larger than the one I have at home—my parents didn’t make any of the bedrooms big because they didn’t want us to hang out in them, rather they wanted us to hang out in the loft above the living room and in the basement with the large entertainment and media room.
Family time is what my parents cherish most, and so, my bedroom in their very large house is actually quite small, which was their attempt at forcing us out.
Of the rooms, I mean.
Well.
It worked because I have no privacy.
I didn’t bring a ton of things to move into this new space, but Mom did let me bring all my bedding and the curtains I had hanging in my room so it will feel like this one is my own. I make short work of folding up and storing the current comforter and sheets in the closet, tucking them out of the way in the top right corner.
Next, I unpack my toiletries and stock up the bathroom cabinet with shaving creams, aftershave lotions, and hair products. Things I never thought I would actually use on a regular basis have become my regular routine. It’s not that I’m a metrosexual, but I’m probably close enough.
I run a finger through my shaggy hair, the one thing I let go while I was overseas, the longer locks falling to my shoulders in dirty blonde waves. Next, I run a hand across the stubble covering my cheeks and chin, in no rush to shave any of it off. I feel more masculine this way—my appearance is probably the reason Lilly didn’t recognize me.
After I’m done putting things away, I survey the bathroom: burgundy shower curtain that actually matches the quilt on my bed and a coordinating rug on outdated tile floor. They’re tiny gray squares straight out of the seventies.
I pull back the shower curtain to put my shampoo, conditioner, and razor on the small ledge. Suction-cup a round mirror beneath the showerhead so I can shave there if I feel like it. Less mess to clean up at the sink.
I take a quick piss then return to the bedroom and unpack a box of school supplies I brought, starting with the many science books I’ve acquired over the years written by numerous experts in the mathematics field. Just some light reading, you know. It’s actually been ages since I’ve read anything fictional for pleasure, not even to put myself to sleep at night. There are only so many hours in the day, and I like to use them to fuel my brain with knowledge—I’m always on a quest to get ahead and graduate early.
I don’t always have a mind for mathematics, but it typically ties into everything and therefore I want to stay sharp.
My mind goes back to Lilly.
I could kick myself for the missed opportunity when she asked if she knew me. She cocked her head and studied my face, and in that instant I could feel the recognition in her gaze—the problem is I’m too much of a pussy to have said anything even though she presented me with the perfect opportunity. I’m always missing out on perfect opportunities unless they’re academic, and sometimes I hate myself for it.
I wish I were more ballsy. My younger brother has bigger balls than I do most of the time. But maybe that’s just because he’s younger and spoiled and hasn’t had to work for anything.
My parents weren’t always wealthy—I remember them being on food stamps when I was younger because my dad was just starting at my grandfather’s business—they never received a dime from the family unless they earned it.
Both of them had to pay for college, working full time while going to school—which I personally can’t imagine doing; not with the course load I have now.
Mom doesn’t have much of a hand at the office anymore—she stopped working there when my brother was born—before that, they leveraged the only car we had to get a small loan for the tiny house I grew up in, robbing Peter to pay Paul as my dad said.
They didn’t start the company but never quit hustling and always worked, sometimes to the detriment of the family. Which is why I think Mom has such a strong hold on Alex and I now; all of the years not being there because she was in the office.
Granted, she was working alongside my dad—but the truth is neither one of them were there for me.
Not really.
Rarely were they at my soccer games, rarely were they at the Science Fairs or Debates.
They relied on my grandmother to keep an eye on me before my brother came along.
And now they rely on me to keep an eye on Aunt Myrtle, who is very similar to a small child. Not because she’s incapable of anything, but because she requires so much attention—she’s a shifty little thing, and if you turn around for one second, she gets into trouble. No one enjoys having an old man show up at the doorstep unannounced to take her on a date.
Or one who’s been invited to family dinner.
It happens all too often, and it became my job to wrangle her.
Anyway.
Guess that’s another reason, more or less, that I haven’t dated. No time.
My phone is on my new desk, and it pings.
Mom: Do you have a minute?
Me: To talk?
Mom: Yes, on the phone.
I hate talking on the phone, but oftentimes Mom won’t let me get away with just texting.
Me: Yeah, I have a minute—I’m just unpacking.
Two seconds later, it rings.
“Hey babycakes, how’s it going? How’s your new house?”
“It’s good.” I stare into the box sitting on the desk chair. “I’m just now starting to unpack all my stuff—got the bathroom organized and now I’m unpacking all my school supplies.”
Mom is quiet for a few seconds before admitting, “I really wish you would’ve let your dad and me come to help you move in.”
“I don’t have that much stuff, Mom.”
I’m not about to tell her I wasn’t going to risk needing their help because along with Mom and Dad come my brother and my great aunt, who always seem to be in tow.
I know it’s not their fault, but it’s extremely inconvenient. You can’t have one without the other these days, and the pair of them get into so much mischief it’s like having a set of fraternal twins with a seventy-one-year age gap.
“Are you still coming home this weekend for Sunday dinner?”
My mother started this thing a few years ago where she makes spaghetti every Sunday—along with garlic and cheesy bread—and forces everyone to be home to sit around the big dining room table for a few hours of bonding. First, she’ll ask how everyone’s day was, and then she’ll ask what the best part of their day was even though we typically spend each and every weekend up each other’s asses.
Then she’ll tell us the plans coming for the following weekend so we can add it to our calendars—like going to the apple farm, or the movies, or a fundraiser organized by one of her neighborhood mom friends.
“I think I can come for Sunday dinner.”
I mean, the ride is twenty minutes and wouldn’t be a hardship.
I should probably stay home and make nice with my two new roommates considering we haven’t spent any time together, but they’re both really busy, and the last thing I want to do is insert myself or invite myself to anything they’ve got g
oing on. I already feel like a giant loser; I don’t need to make it worse.
“Why don’t you bring your roommates along? Dad and I would love to meet them.”
“Or, maybe next time? It might be too soon to introduce them to Aunt Myrtle.” I laugh.
Mom laughs too. “Yes, you could be right.” She pauses. “Is there anything you want this weekend for dinner instead of spaghetti? I could prepare something else, like steak? Or shrimp? Do you want sushi? Maybe we could do pizza.”
She’s trying so hard—I feel guilty because it’s obvious she’s not sure what to do without me being there. My mother’s whole purpose is being a mom, and she has to find her way again now that I’ve left the nest; who knows, I may never live there again.
Kind of a depressing thought, yeah?
“Mom, spaghetti is fine. You know I’ll eat whatever you set in front of me.”
“You don’t sound thrilled.” It sounds like she is pouting.
“Don’t change what you’ve been doing for the past two years because I’m gone.”
“But…” Her voice trails off. “I like having you home.”
“Mom, I’ve never been gone.”
“You left and went to Europe.”
That’s true. “But that was only for a semester, and you and Dad came to visit.” Mostly she shopped, did high tea, and played tourist while I was at class, but yeah—it’s not as if she didn’t see me in the time I was gone.
Plus, she FaceTimed me and called every chance she got.
Mom seriously needs to cut the cord.
She’s acting like I flew back over the ocean, never to be seen again, when in actuality it will only take me twenty minutes to drive home when she wants to see me and twenty minutes for them to visit.
I knew I should have applied to NYU…
I’m internally grumbling, letting the silence stretch.
“Roman, are you still there?” Mom taps on the phone as if testing out a microphone. “Hello?”
“I’m here. I was just thinking.”
“About what? Tell your mother.”
She’s always saying that: tell your mother—as if those words are going to make me spill my guts and confess all of my sins.
Sins. Ha!
The list would be embarrassingly short, not that I’m perfect. It’s just that I’m…boring.
I’d have to leave my desk chair to commit a sin, and I haven’t done that in years, which brings me to my new digs.
Freedom to make some bad choices.
“About…” How excited I am to be living on my own! “Your garlic bread.”
“Oh stop. It’s so easy I can practically make it in my sleep. It’s no big deal.”
I roll my eyes at her false modesty.
“Have you met anyone yet?”
Met anyone? “What do you mean?”
“You know,” Mom hedges. “Girls.”
“Mom, I have lived here exactly—” I check the watch circling my left wrist. “Five hours.”
“Well how would I know the house isn’t filled with people? You didn’t let us come help move you in,” she points out again. I have a feeling I’ll be hearing about this a lot; my mother is not one to let things go.
“I told you—I live with two people, Jack and Eliza. Jack is from Britain—I got his number from his brother Ashley, whom I met a few times while I lived there. Eliza is his girlfriend.”
Mom is quiet. “I just don’t know how I feel about you living with a couple. It feels weird. It’s not that I mind you living with a girl. It’s just…I don’t want you to feel left out because they’re together. And God forbid they have sex in the living room. What if you hear them?”
My face flushes as she goes on talking about sex and thin walls and how when she was in college, her freshman roommate Nicole used to have sex with her boyfriend in the bottom bunk while she lay in the top bunk. I try to remind her this isn’t the dorms and we’re adults and both Jack and Eliza seem very respectful—at least they did when I met them so they could interview me and I them for this roommate position.
“It’ll be okay, Mom. I’m not worried they’re going to have sex where I eat breakfast.”
She needs to stop worrying and stop fabricating excuses for me not to live here—I should have moved out when I started school, but I didn’t, and now there is no looking back. There is no Alex busting through this door. There is no rushing around to pick up Aunt Myrtle from an appointment or set an extra space at the table for one of her boyfriends. Or listen to her telling me about her singles over seventy dating app.
Mom makes no comment on my sex-for-breakfast quip and instead brings up Sunday supper once more. “Say you’ll come on Sunday.”
“I thought I did like three times?”
“Just making sure.” Mom laughs.
“I’m not going to ghost you, Mom. I’m only living twenty minutes away—I’ve been taking classes here for two years.” Two and a half if you count the semester last year before studying abroad.
“I know, I know, I just worry.”
“Worry about what? That I’m going to run out of gas on my way home? Or that I can’t manage on my own? I know how to do laundry and make my own dinner, for crying out loud—you taught me how to do all those things, Mom. You don’t have to worry that I’m not going to survive. Were you this worried when I lived in England?” Because she nagged me way less than she’s nagging me now.
“Of course I was worried. But I knew you were coming home.”
That makes sense—she wasn’t as freaked out because she knew I was going to be back in her house and down the hall, but instead I came home, packed up my things, and moved into a new house entirely, and that has her reeling.
“Are you sure you don’t want to bring your roommates along with you? They might really enjoy a home-cooked meal.”
My mother makes one last semi-desperate attempt to get me to bring my new friends home—probably so she can cross-examine them and do background checks and give them the third degree. God, I can’t even imagine what that would be like.
Who knew she was going to be this overprotective?
I kind of feel bad for Alex; he’s going to be taking the brunt of her missing me. Although, I have a sneaking suspicion that within a few months, she will have completely redecorated my bedroom and turned it into either a guestroom or a hangout lounge for my brother. Or possibly even a craft room for herself—lately she has begun knitting, and that might be a sweet spot for her to have some peace and quiet.
No doubt Alex would stay out of her yarn room.
Ha ha.
“Yeah, I’m sure I don’t want to bring my roommates home for dinner.” Not just yet. I want to get to know them a little bit first.
“Alright, if you’re sure.” I hear her thinking through the telephone line. “I can always make enough so there are leftovers you can take home—home.” She laughs. “I can’t even believe I’m saying that. You have a new home! It makes me want to cry. My little baby is growing up.”
Ignore the comment about me being her little baby.
“Leftovers would be nice—I have a feeling Jack would eat anything I put in the fridge. He is one of those guy’s guys. Totally looks like a garbage disposal.”
“Okay, that’s the plan then,” Mom says, clapping her hands the way she always does when she’s settled on an idea. “I’ll go grocery shopping—in the meantime, if you change your mind about inviting them, let me know.”
“I will.”
But I won’t change my mind, and I don’t change my mind because it just feels weird to invite two strangers to my house, two strangers I’m living with.
After I end the call with Mom, I finish taking everything out of the boxes and have almost everything put in place. The last thing I remove, I remove from my pocket—the friendship bracelet Lilly gave me those three years back when we were both freshmen. Clueless and a little bit scared.
I’ve held on to it, obviously, and stuck it in my pocket befor
e leaving my mother and father’s house for this one.
It goes on the dresser beneath the window overlooking the backyard, probably never to be worn on my wrist again, at least not if Lilly is going to be hanging around this house.
What are the freaking odds that she would be my new roommate’s best friend and old roommate?
What.
Are.
The.
Odds.
I didn’t even know how to react when I walked into the kitchen and saw her sitting on the seat at the counter, nibbling on pizza and vegetables as if she belonged there. She definitely looked like she feels more comfortable here than I do, but I imagine that will change over time.
Since I can’t stay holed up in this bedroom forever, I tidy everything up one last time before making my way downstairs. I’m kind of hoping there is still food in the kitchen because I’m starving and didn’t actually eat before because Lilly was here and she makes me nervous as hell.
She made me nervous the night we met, and apparently not much has changed. I like to think I’m not the same bumbling, nervous idiot I was as a first-year college student, but I’m still the same bumbling, nervous idiot. I’m twenty-one years old, for goodness’ sake—you would think I would be able to talk to a girl without fumbling. Or dropping a box that wasn’t even heavy to begin with.
The only thing inside that box was my award, and it only weighs a few pounds. It was wrapped in bubble wrap, apparently not very well since it broke.
How embarrassing.
Lilly took the trophy with her, and I can’t imagine what she’s going to do with the damn thing, broken into a million pieces.
Guess time will tell.
I make my way downstairs, listening for the sound of my roommates, and hear the television on in the living room. It sounds like they’re watching an action film, and soon enough I discover that the fireplace is going and they moved some of the food into that room.