Page 6 of Possessive Ink

The ladies head to their class, and I inhale, grinning to myself as I’m reminded why I love my job. I just wish that I got to spend more time doing it.

No more guests arrive before I tidy my desk and pop the reception closed sign on the counter. The sun has almost set by the time I step onto the sidewalk, but instead of going straight home, I head to the coffee shop, wishing that I’d remembered to stop into the patisserie while I was rushing to do Wes’s bidding.

The dress I’m wearing swishes and swirls at my ankles, and despite my long, tiring day, I have to fight the urge to spin in a circle so the fabric can move and billow the way I love. I’d describe my style as romantic extra. I love pastels and florals. I love dramatic, over-the-top dresses that make me feel like a heroine from a period romance book. I love feeling girly and a little bit like a princess.

Unable or unwilling to fight it, I dance in a circle, giggling happily as my rose-pink dress swooshes out as I spin. I probably look insane, but honestly, who cares. With my extra-large strawberries and cream Frappuccino in hand, I exhale wearily the moment I spot my apartment building and wish I’d walked a little slower. There’s nothing wrong with where I live. Rockhead Point is a nice town, and the building is nice. Hell, my apartment is nice. What’s not so nice is my roommate.

Avery is Type A with an extra-large A in bold font. She’s training to be an orthodontist and is quite possibly the most serious, focused person I’ve ever met. I know that in theory neither of those personality traits is bad, but if you combine that with her insane need to be in complete control over our living space, it means that instead of our apartment feeling like a safe retreat for me, stepping through the door actually stresses me out.

Avery doesn’t like mess or clutter. She hates pink and enjoys minimalism. I’m messy, and I really like tchotchkes. Pink is part of my identity, and I’m a maximalist with a side of extra. So basically, I’m everything she hates in a person.

Before we started living together, I’d have called us friends. We met when I was working in a fantasy-themed coffee shop in Bozeman. She was in college, and I was living my best heroine life by coming to work dressed in my most extra outfits every day. The coffee shop was definitely not Avery’s style, but the coffee was good and reasonably priced, and she became a regular.

When the owners sold the shop, the new people decided to turn it into a themed barber shop, so I lost my job. That was when Avery told me she’d gotten a residency placement at a dentist’s office in Rockhead Point and asked me if I was interested in moving there with her and becoming her roommate.

It wasn’t until after we’d signed the lease that she realized I wasn’t wearing long, flowy dresses with corsets and tiaras on the daily because it was the uniform at the shop, but because I loved them and dressed like that anyway.

It wasn’t until after we’d moved into our new apartment that I realized Avery loses her shit if a glass is left on the side and not put into the dishwasher within thirty seconds of you finishing drinking from it. Or that she’s offended by bookshelves and TV shows that aren’t TED Talks or documentaries.

It wasn’t until I’d hauled my stuff into my room that she realized I wear my extra label like a badge of honor. She started hyperventilating the first time she stepped into my bedroom and saw my wall of faux flowers and fairy lights and how my closet overflowed into the bedroom, with my shoes, jewelry, and accessories covering every surface.

Basically, Avery and I realized on day one that we have literally nothing in common. But by that point we were both tied into a two-year lease and stuck living together. Unfortunately, while I’m pretty easygoing and willing to at least try to make the best of a bad situation, Avery is not.

Before she’d even finished unpacking her three boxes of personal belongings, she’d already typed out and printed a list of rules for the shared space.

No TV after ten p.m.

No visitors.

No ornaments or clutter.

No personal belongings or clothes to be left in any shared space.

No music above volume level three.

No parties.

No dishes in the sink.

No strong-smelling food, perfume, or air fresheners.

No candles anywhere in the apartment.

In the first week, she made six more lists. The rules got so extreme that somehow we both became confined to our bedrooms so that the living space could stay the way she wanted it to be. We have a couch that hasn’t been sat on for over a year because the last time I sat on it, I spilled a crumb off the sandwich I was eating onto the cushion and Avery lost her mind.

Her meltdown was so extreme that I just stopped using the living space, even when she wasn’t home. I cook in the kitchen with the window open, bleaching the counters as I go to make sure that she has nothing to criticize, and I’ve been actively counting down the days until our lease is finished so I can move out without having to cause more drama.

There are sixty-eight days and counting until I can leave and hopefully never see Avery ever again.

Swallowing thickly, I climb the stairs to the third floor, then slip my key into the lock, twisting it as I brace myself. As always, the apartment is dark and silent—just the way Avery likes it. Tiptoeing toward my room, I carefully open the door, not breathing again until it’s closed behind me. My bedroom is the only room that I haven’t allowed Avery to exert her will over. She’s tried. In fact, she’s tried several times to insist that I take down my fairy lights and decorations and get rid of half of my clothes, but I refuse to allow her to have any say in how I keep my private space.

I don’t care that she thinks my closet is a fire hazard. I don’t care that she thinks I’m a monster for having so many clothes that are probably made from exploiting child labor. I don’t care that she says romance novels are a waste of time and will give me false hope and ridiculous notions of unrealistic relationships.

My room is the only place in our whole apartment that has any personality, and I point-blank refuse to allow her to change that. I take a gulping breath the moment I’m closed inside my room, reminding myself that it’s less than three months until I can move somewhere I don’t have to dread going home to each night.

Living alone is going to be a stretch financially, but I don’t care. I don’t want to end up in a situation like I’m in now again, and the only way to guarantee that is to have my own place. Then I can paint every wall pink, cover every surface with things that make me smile, and never have to live by someone else’s rules ever again.

Lifting my purse off my shoulder, I catch my reflection in the mirror and smile. The dress I’m wearing is one of my favorites. The rosy-pink color is super pretty, the sleeves are puffy, the neckline is square, and my boobs look amazing in it. The waist is cinched, and instead of the half corset I usually wear with it, today I’ve paired it with a thick belt that has a large gold colored buckle that always feels a bit piratey. But it’s the skirt that’s my favorite part. It’s a full circle of frills and layers that makes me feel like a little kid playing dress-up.