My Summer Roommate (8 page)

“Everything okay, love?”
Mom asks, peering at me over her reading glasses.

“
Yes. Tell me about this house,” I say, and then look up when Mom’s silent. “What?”

“There’s something else we need to discuss first,” she says, and she looks disturbingly grown-up and responsible.

“Eric and I,” she says and covers his hand on the table with hers, “we’ve been looking for an appropriate house.”

“I know,” I say, confused.

“What Natasha’s trying to say is that we’re looking for a house for the three of us,” Eric explains.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Mom laughs nervously.

“Oh as in ‘I didn’t expect that but I’m on board’.” I guess
that was a lie because I knew it would eventually happen. They’re living together now, so there would be no point in them moving apart again. Perhaps moving in together after a six-month relationship might seem premature, but I could see it work with the two of them. I wouldn’t have to worry about Mom being on her own while I’m away at college.

When I look at Eric, I think he
agrees when he says, “I’d take care of your mom so you can focus on your studies. And the money we save by only having to rent or buy one place can go against paying out the loan.”

“Sounds sensible,” I say.

“You’re okay with this?” Mom asks. Usually, other people’s opinions, including mine, are way off her radar, as if she weren’t aware of people
having
opinions that might clash with her own. But this time she seems concerned and in tune with the world around her. It amazes me.

“I’m happy you’ve decided to do this,” I say.

“Good,” Eric says, and then the food arrives and we dig in.

Not long after dessert,
Mom starts again. “So, this … er … Chris. Is he treating you nicely?”

“We’re sharing an apartment for a few weeks,
Mom. He could ignore me, for all I care.” In fact, that would be the better option.

As if.

“But does he?”

“Ignore me? No.”

“I meant treat you nicely.”

“Oh,
Mom,” I complain.

“Well, you’re avoiding talking about him, so I’m worried that he’s unkind to you.”

I put down my spoon slowly to have some time to form my thoughts. “He’s not unkind, Mom. He’s actually a very nice guy.” I feel a blush creep up my neck and I wish I could bolt out of the restaurant before anyone notices my discomfort.

“Uh-huh,” says Eric, and then less convincingly, “That’s good.” The way he looks at me, I’m afraid he sees right through me. He might know me better than my mother.

But she’s not very far behind, when she says, “You’re nice to him too, then?” It’s a neutral enough question, but her tone is far from it.

“We don’t see each other much,” I
mumble, finishing my drink. “He works mornings, and I spend a lot of time at Izzy’s.”

Mo
m smiles widely.

I’m angry at myself for being so transparent. Everyone seems to know what I’m thinking and how I feel. Everyone but me.

That’s what happens when you insist on ignoring the truth.

Didn’t I tell you to shut up?

****

I spend most of the afternoon walking the streets or resting in the park across from my place. Now, when I’m alone, I let myself think about Chris. I know myself well enough to know I won’t be able to avoid thinking about him for long. The things I don’t allow myself are always the most tempting, and the last thing I want is for Chris to become even more tempting than he already is. So I let myself think about last night, about his smiling green eyes and the drowsy entreaties to give him a chance. It all feels too real, too honest. That’s why I’ve decided not to give him a chance. But I let myself dream about it. If I let myself saturate this needy, gentler side of me with thoughts of him, I will eventually become fed up and I’ll get over him.

So I sit on a bench, eyes closed, catching the subdued late afternoon sunshine on my face. Every now and again I glance at the building entrance or the window of our apartment to see if he’s still there. He’s supposed to go out in the evening, but he’s still in. I saw him walk around the place a minute ago.

He seemed such a quiet, distanced guy in high school. He is different now that I’m living with him. He laughs a lot. He’s not reserved at all, but not too forward either. There is something boyish in him: he doesn’t possess the graveness and self-importance of other guys his age. There’s a softness and poise in everything he does or says. He’s not loud or rough like Adam, or sneaky like Jax. He’s just right.

Right for what
? Shit, Chloe, get a grip.

And then I see him exit the building with his sports bag in his hand. He walks up the street to the coffee joint there. He’ll get black coffee for the ride downtown where he’s meeting with his buddies. After five minutes, he comes out of the café, brown paper cup in his right hand, the bag in his left, his shoulder pushing the door open. He’s tall and lean, and I can imagine his grace on the slopes. I
don’t know much about snowboarding but I remember Harper saying he was really good. I believe him just looking at Chris walk. I remember how he danced last night … Sigh.

The second he sits in his truck, I cross the street and even before I close the apartment door behind me, I’m unrolling my yoga mat and I’m at it with more dedication than I’ve shown in months. I need to build my inner peace before he returns home and shatters my resolve.

Chapter Eight

CHRIS

On Mondays, Salvo’s bakery is closed so I don’t have any deliveries to make. Today, I sleep in just because, although that’s not my usual MO. When I wake up and drag myself to the coffee machine, I find Chloe’s note on the fridge. She’ll be at Izzy’s the whole morning.

I can’t believe I didn’t hear her get up or go out. I feel shitty that she probably skipped breakfast and
tea on account of me sleeping on the couch. Because I don’t believe I slept soundly enough not to hear her putter around the kitchen.

I check my email while I sip coffee. Just as I take the last sip, there’s a knock on the door. Did Chloe forget her keys?

I open the door wide, grinning at the chance to tease her, when I see an unknown woman in the hallway.

“Morning. Is Chloe up yet?”

I have the impression that I’ve seen the woman before, but I can’t remember where.

“Sorry, she’s gone out already. Can I help you?”

“Oh.” She looks around distractedly. “I just wanted to see where she lived. I’m her mother.”

So that was it.
I haven’t actually seen her, I just recognized her features. Now that I look at her, it’s obvious. The large blue eyes, the delicate features, and the full mouth. Only this woman is shorter and painfully slim, while Chloe is all soft and graceful.

“Pleasure,” I say and shake her hand. “Come in
, please.”

She enters the place and I become self-conscious because of the mess. The sheets and pillows are still on the couch. I bundle them up and take them into Chloe’s room.

“Sorry about the mess. I’m off work today and I slept in.”

“Don’t judge me by Chloe’s standards. I’m messy myself,” she says with a conspiratorial smile. I like her.
But then again I would. Because of Chloe, if for nothing else.

“I hope she hasn’t given you too much grief over cleaning after yourself and putting things away.”

“Some. But I deserved it.”

“My name’s Natasha, by the way,” she says, as I invite her to sit at the table. She’s easy to talk to
. Her voice is soft and melodious. A lot like Chloe’s. But she has a dreamy way of talking, while Chloe is direct.

She accepts my offer of coffee. While I fumble with the machine, I wonder about her reason
s for coming. I’m not entirely clear on Chloe’s home situation. It can’t be something you’d call normal if she’s crashing with me while her mom is staying with her boyfriend.

“I apologize for barging in unannounced like that.”

“’S okay.”

“She probably told me she
was going out today, but I forgot. I can’t really bring myself to care about all this … stuff.” She flails her hands about a little, and the gossamer blouse she’s wearing creates an image of an ethereal creature. That reminds me of Chloe telling me she was an artist.

“Chloe says you’re a painter,” I say to fill the quiet.

“An illustrator, actually.”

“Cool. Books for kids or graphic novels?”

“Picture books, mostly.”

“Shame, I prefer graphic novel
s.”

She laughs quietly. “Are you interested in art?”

“Not really. I’m more a sporty type.”

“Oh yes, Chloe mentioned you did some winter sport … hockey, was it?”

“Snowboarding.”

“That must be nice. I’m so uncoordinated I’d break my neck on my first ride.” As if to prove it, she knocks the mug when I place it in front of her
, and nearly spills the coffee.

“See? It’s not safe to be me.”

I’m not sure if she means it as a joke, so I smile tentatively. I don’t want her to think I’m laughing at her.

“Are you staying here for college?”

“No, I’m moving to Atlanta in the fall. I’ll study sport pedagogy there.”

“Chloe is going there, too,” she says as if it should matter to me. I mean, it does, only she doesn’t know that.

“She’s obsessed with psychology. I tried to get her to change her mind about her study choices, but she wouldn’t listen.”

“She’s good at it.”

“I know. It’s just that she has a lot to deal with on her own. I don’t want her to have to deal with other people’s mistakes and problems.” The grave demeanor ages her for a few years all of a sudden. The change astonishes me. She seemed so flighty and youthful a moment ago.

“You see, I haven’t been the best
mom to her. She had to shoulder too much responsibility at a young age.”

“
I think she’s stronger than she seems,” I say, but at the same time I remember Chloe’s words about not being happy with who she is, about how complicated she is. But I can’t exactly tell her mom she was a shitty mom, can I? Besides, everyone has their problems. Who am I to judge her?

“She’s coping in her own way.”
She smiles a little as if trying to lighten the mood. “You’ll do her good.”

I don’t know what to say. “I-I’m … It’s just for a few more weeks before we move out.”

“Still. You’re a good influence on her.”

I desperately want to know what got her thinking that, but I don’t know how to ask. She reads my mind again, however.

“She mentioned you, you know.”

“She
did?”

“Well … It’s more about how she’s avoiding talking about you, really.”

This confuses the hell out of me. How is not talking about someone good? As far as I’m concerned that just means you don’t think them important enough to talk about them. Or worse, they annoy you, or something.

She must see my confusion, because she continues, “She’s never too keen to talk about the people that matter to her.”

“Huh.”

Yeah, I know, not the most intelligent response. Bear in mind, I’m
discussing a girl I like with her mother. That’s pretty weird and nerve-wracking.

“Adam, she talked about constantly. They were too casual for it to really matter. Or Tony, or … or …”

“Yeah, I get it.” Whoa, lady, I do not want to hear about every single boyfriend Chloe’s had. It’s enough that I know what a jackass Adam is. Really, TMI.

“Oh,” she says and jerks back. “I apologize.” I guess my horrified expression took her by surprise.

“Are you two …?”

“No.” I say it too vehemently, I know, but it’s too late to take it back. “I just …
that’s her life. I’m just a roommate.”

“Sure?” She smiles again
. The skin on the back of my neck crawls. She certainly shares her insight into people with Chloe. Another reason why she should understand why Chloe wants to study psychology.

I don’t know what to tell her, but I am saved by the bell. Or actually
by Chloe, as she opens the door and then stops dead when she sees who’s sitting at the table.

“Mo
m?”

“Hi, honey. I wanted to see where you lived. Christopher was kind enough to invite me in for a coffee despite me barging in here unannounced.”

Chloe’s eyes flit to me and then back to her mother. I can see her mind trying to work out how much damage has been done in her absence. Not much, she must decide, because she relaxes, smiles and gives her mom a kiss on the cheek.

“You should’ve told me you were coming.”

“Didn’t I?”

“Mo
m, next time Eric offers to buy you a smartphone, grab the opportunity. It’ll remember things instead of you.”