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Tessa had suggested that maybe he was married. Which, yikes. I hadn’t even thought of that.
The house, or what I saw of it, is nothing like what I expected. It’s huge. A mansion. A professional decorated this room—or a wife did.
Chris was hard to get a read on. Despite his deadpan demeanor, I got the sense last night that he found me amusing, but it was very subtle.
The metaphorical wrench of the shitty apartment has negated any plans I had for the day, so I dress in comfortable clothing and tiptoe down the hallway, wondering which room is Chris’s. I refrain from opening doors and poking my head inside, figuring that walking in on my new roommate would definitely be improper behavior. Though, who am I to know proper roommate behavior? I haven’t ever lived with anyone who didn’t already love me.
A grandfather clock ticks in the foyer as I make my way down the stairs. The decor is beautiful but stuffy. The furniture is mostly button-back dark leather, and the floors are light wood parquet. Exposed beams run along the ceiling of the great room. I wonder why Chris lives here. After realizing that my bedroom door had a deadbolt on it, I thought maybe this was a rental, and the rest of the house looks that way, too. It doesn’t seem like his style, though I remind myself that I really don’t know him at all. He seems more artistic than this stuffy place, and I’d imagined him in a modern, white, and tidy space.
My breath catches as I turn the corner and find the main living area. Dead ahead are large windows, showing a gray, pre-dawn landscape that will be stunning later. On the left is a family room, a large TV and couches surrounding it, a fireplace integrated into the support beams, the same dark wood as the ceiling.
On the right is my dream kitchen. It’s huge, with gleaming white marble. An island counter separates it from the great room, with hanging pots above it. I step into the space and see that everything is top of the line, from the copper pans to the pot-filler faucet above the stove to the refrigerator.
I throw my hands out and spin around the kitchen space, Julie Andrews-style. Forget girls in white dresses with blue satin sashes and brown paper packages tied up with string. This kitchen is my new favorite thing.
The cottage I’d picked out claimed “well-stocked kitchen” in the ad. Well-stocked, my ass. It didn’t even have a blender.
I open every cabinet in this kitchen and squeal with delight at each new item I discover. Immersion blender? Check. Food processor? Check. There are even some things that are foreign to me. I don’t know their purpose or how to use them, but I’ll learn.
Giddy, I throw open the doors of the double-wide, stainless-steel refrigerator and gasp in shock. Sad condiments, leftover containers, and a carton of milk stare back at me.
I tsk to myself. Such a waste to have a kitchen like this and not have it stocked with wonderful food.
I open the freezer, and it’s like a flashback to twenty years ago. Frozen pizzas and French fries and comfort-food snacks sit on the shelves. Just the kind of stuff I used to rely on to survive when Zoe was little and before Kit died.
The pantry fares a little better, but not much. Neatly organized staples line the shelves, mixed with bags of chips and cookies.
At the far side of the kitchen is a small breakfast nook, and on the other side of that, a backdoor leads out to the porch. On the table is the first sign of Chris—or any personal effects of his: a laptop, a few pads of paper with scribbles on them, and dishes with crumbs.
The signs of my roommate snatch me back to reality and routine. I locate a kettle and heat water, darting upstairs for the satchels of green tea I brought.
Within a few minutes, I have a mug of tea warming my hands, and step out onto the deck. My eyes widen as I take in the scenery. From the windows, I could barely see anything, but now that the sky is getting lighter, the details reveal themselves; there is a gazebo to one side with a stone fireplace, seating for at least twenty, and a hot tub. Beyond the luxurious patio stretches trees and mountains as far as the eye can see.
I sip my tea while I take in the view and pick out the best spot to practice yoga on the deck. Once my tea is gone, I return inside to make breakfast. There’s a thick, crusty, rustic loaf of bread in the back of the freezer that I toast and drizzle with olive oil. Not ideal, but it’ll hold me.
I definitely have to ask Chris to take me to town for some food—assuming I stay, of course.
Then I retrace my steps up to my room, retrieve my yoga mat, and settle down on the deck for some practice.
I thoughtChris would be up by the time my ninety-minute practice was done, but all was still quiet. I shower and settle into an upholstered chair in the great room with a John Green novel until my phone rings next to me. The morning has flown by—it’s one p.m. in Spain, time for Jade’s lunch break and a chat.
We don’t talk every day, but with Tessa and I moving to our respective cities and Emma staying with Jade, there’s a lot to catch up on.
I leave my book behind and run as quietly as I can to the breakfast nook, where I’ve left my headphones. I answer while they connect, and I’m the last to join.
“Hi!” I say, keeping my voice low.
I get a chorus of hellos back.
From her kitchen, Tessa calls out, “Sorry, I’m still making a sandwich. My video call ran long.” She is an editor for a travel magazine and often has calls with writers, photographers, and her fellow staff.
“No worries,” I whisper.
Jade leans closer to her camera and whispers back, “Why are you talking so quietly?” The youngest of us at forty, Jade is in her office. She’s Mexican-American, with long dark hair and a bright white mallen streak that’s accentuated by the high ponytail she wears most of the time. Smart as hell, Jade has worked in the pharmaceutical industry since she graduated with a degree in biochemistry. She’s wearing a button-up blouse and munching on her lunch.
“My, uh, roommate? I guess? He’s not awake yet.”
Everyone’s eyes dart to check their clocks.
