Page 16

That’s two episodes now. It’s not a fluke.

What if it’s a brain tumor?

I should get an MRI.

Yes, that’s exactly what I need. Proof that something is or isn’t going on inside my head.

My panic is temporarily halted by the sound of a creaking mattress.

Shit.

I had almost forgotten that on top of my possible brain trauma, I’ve stolen my brand-new roommate’s clothing from his room.

I freeze and listen, trying to decipher the sounds. Is he awake?

Slowly, I slip the jacket from my shoulders; the entire time my eyes are fixed on the single corner of his mattress visible from where I’m standing.

I step toward his open door.

The floorboards beneath my feet creak.

Then I hear a single grunt, then more sheet shuffling.

Shit shit shit. In a panic I fling the jacket over the back of the couch and then sprint tiptoe, as quietly as I can, to the kitchen, my heart beating so loudly in my ears that I almost don’t hear him behind me when he yawns and pads into the kitchen with a sleepy-sounding “Morning.”

I busy myself with the tin of Folgers. “Morning,” I return the greeting but can’t yet bring myself to turn. Instead, I stare at the empty canister I have yet to replace until enough time passes that I am left with no other choice than to turn around and face him.

He’s sitting at the counter, a red bowl in front of him and a yellow box of cereal opened beside him.

“Corn Pops?” he offers, tipping the box toward me when he catches me eyeing it.

He does not look distressed.

Not at all like a man who has caught his roommate trying on his stolen clothes in the middle of the living room.

“Good first night?” I manage to speak and shake my head to decline the cereal.

He nods, his mouth clearly full, and he promptly chews before answering. “The bed is really comfortable. It just took me a little while to get used to the city sounds.”

I nod sympathetically, although as a born and raised Toronto girl I’ve never had this problem. “I can sleep anywhere,” I tell him. “My brain has learned to filter out the noise.”

He nods at the couch. “Yeah, I noticed.”

My mouth goes dry. A memory surfaces from the night before. The sound of someone coming home. A blanket being placed on top of me.

“What are you up to this morning?” I ask, desperately needing a new topic of conversation.

He leans back and stretches his arms out with another grunted yawn. His white T-shirt rides up. It’s just an inch, but my eyes immediately fall on the strip of tanned skin.

He clears his throat. My eyes snap up, and my cheeks grow hot as I realize I’ve been openly gawking.

“Want coffee?” I hold up the canister as if presenting evidence that it was coffee that occupied my thoughts just now.

Mackenzie gets to his feet. “Yeah. I’d love some, but do you mind if I watch how you make it? I don’t want to screw it up when it’s my turn.”

He reaches me just as my brain clues in to the problem. We stare down at the empty canister together.

“Do you have any more?” Mackenzie looks up, puzzled.