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Tessa does, and I catch Luc up, and Tessa shows him the photos. Luc grimaces. “That does not look good.”
“Right?” His sympathy encourages me to keep the rant going. “The Wi-Fi is supposed to be good, but I tried to video chat with Zoe, and it was laggy. That’s why I’m at this café. That and I had to get out of there. It smells. I’m pretty sure there’s meat juice coagulated into the grooves of the refrigerator. I can’t sleep there, much less do yoga or eat. How am I supposed to film my video for Wednesday?” I hear a strangled cough that doesn’t come from Tessa or Luc, and I glance up.
The lone patron of the café darts his eyes away from me and tries to cover his laughter with another cough.
Seriously? I’m having a terrible day, and this guy thinks it’s funny that my new apartment is a HazMat zone? My eyes well up, and I’m horrified and humiliated all at once. “Oh, you think this is funny?” I snap at the man.
“What? No! I’m not laughing,” Tessa says in my ear.
The guy’s face falls. “No, no, I’m sorry,” he says, waving his hands and coming to his feet. His blonde hair is pulled back into a bun at the nape of his neck. He’s got a thick accent, too, definitely German. “It’s just . . . I might have a place for you to stay.”
“Sara, who is that?” Tessa’s voice in my ear pulls me back to my phone. Luc and Tessa both crowd the screen, staring at me in concern.
My gaze flicks back up to the man now standing in front of me. “He’s another patron of the café, and he might have a place for me to stay. Tessa, can I call you back?”
“I want a call or text within the next ten minutes,” she says sternly, and I quickly agree and blow her a kiss before hanging up. Removing my headphones from my ears, I tuck them away and give the guy my full attention.
“If your apartment is terrible,” he says, “Germany has a lot of protections for tenant rights. You should be able to file a complaint and get your money back.”
That’s only one part of the problem. I’d booked this apartment months ago, and finding another two-month lease at the last minute was going to be expensive. Plus, I also needed a place to stayright now.
“Well, that’s good to know,” I respond. At least this guy is being helpful. “But I don’t have a lawyer. Or a grasp of legalese in German. Or a place to live.” Each point makes me slump a bit more. I knew I was biting off more than I could chew. What was I thinking, deciding to take a risk—financially and personally—to up my life and move halfway around the world?
“I can help you with that.”
Oh, right. I search his face for signs that he’s teasing me or joking, but I don’t see any. In fact, he’s dead serious, almost frowning, which does nothing to dampen how attractive he is.
“I have a house,” he continues. “I can let you stay in it at the same rate you’d pay for that other place.”
I look this guy up and down. I wear very casual clothes—I’m a yoga instructor, so my life is mostly yoga pants and sports bras and tank tops. This guy has a similar dress ethos of comfort over appearance because he’s wearing thin cotton pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt of a band I’ve never heard of.
“I’m Chris,” he says, offering me his hand. He doesn’t smile, and neither do I while I shake it. He looms over me, with wide shoulders and at least a few inches on my height.
“You have a house?” I prompt.
He crosses his arms on his chest and steps back to lean on the table next to me instead of towering over me. “You’d have your own space, but it’s out of town—”
“Wait, wait, I’m sorry. You said you have a house. You meanyourhouse? Where I would live? With you?”
“I’m a good roommate. I work from the house, but I have a room for my office, and I’d keep to myself. I’m a nice guy, I promise.” His voice is kind, but his frown says that while he may be nice, he’s also not overly friendly.
“They all say that,” I say faintly. “Especially the murderers.”
“Well, I’m not a murderer,” he continues. “But seriously, it’s better than mushrooms, right?”
Is this a German thing? Are people that nice here? I feel like back in the US, if someone heard a grown woman crying over toilet mushrooms and shitty Wi-Fi, people would roll their eyes and think that it’s not their problem.
Hell, I would do that.
So how do I politely tell a stranger—maybe a murderer, maybe not—that I don’t want to live with them?
“You might be a good roommate, but what makes you think I am?” The words spill out, and I tick off my fingers with each point. “I’m vegan. I do yoga. My friends are coming to visit next month. And my daughter is living in Munich and is going to visit me. A lot.”
“That’s okay,” he says, a flicker of bemusement in his eyes.
“I don’t speak German. I have a lot of hair products. And clothes.”
“I’m pretty sure you’re trying to make up reasons to say no. But I will admit I’m intrigued by the hair products.”
