Roommate Wanted (Sharing Space #1) (4 page)

After I showed her the apartment we sat down to talk over iced tea. Cynthia explained that she was going through a divorce after she’d found her husband of twenty years sleeping with his secretary. She was in the process of working out a very lucrative settlement. She had no real work experience, as he had always been the breadwinner. Several times during our conversation it seemed she fought back tears, and she commented on the heat more than that.  It was rough to hear how she’d put her life on hold to be a housewife and support her working husband building his career, only to have it thrown in her face.

"I'm a very good housekeeper. You wouldn't have to worry about that. I can also cook anything. You name it, I know how to cook it. When Tom would bring his business associates over, I served the best meals. They always asked who I used as a caterer and they were surprised when I told them I did it all myself. They said I gave the best dinner parties. Too bad my husband wasn't as appreciative as his co-workers. You would think after twenty years of marriage... My, is it hot in here?"

"Umm, Mrs. Becker—"

"Call me Cynthia."

"Cynthia, please don't take this the wrong way, but it sounds to me like you pretty much have your husband dead to rights. There's not a court in this state that wouldn't award you a nice settlement
and
alimony payments for a husband who’s been caught cheating. With that said, why would you want to share an apartment with someone like me? I mean, with our age difference, and not that it’s a problem, but with the difference in mind and the money you're sure to get, wouldn't you rather get a nice home for yourself?"

"Chloe, I have missed so much being married. I met Tim when I was twenty and married him at twenty-two. I was a virgin, hadn't dated much, and didn't do most things girls my age did. I let him waste twenty years of my life and I'm not going to waste what's left. I want to start over, meet new people, and live the life I should have been living. Your ad read ‘Single female, mid-20s, seeking roommate.’ I think living with someone like you would be refreshing."

"I see. Well, I still have other people interested and I'm showing the apartment again today.  I'll call you and let you know what I decide."

I walked Cynthia to the door and, from the way we said goodbye, it was apparent to us both that I would not call her—at least not to tell her that she could move in. As I walked back to the living room, I felt sad. Not for myself—even though I was striking out in finding a suitable roommate—but for Cynthia. Just yesterday my problems seemed huge, but here was a woman who was about to start her life over with nothing to build on but a broken marriage and no self-confidence. Unfortunately, I knew how she felt. Not that I had invested nearly so much of myself or my time in Lawrence as she had in her marriage, but I knew what it felt like to be cheated on and lied to. Meeting Cynthia made me even more grateful that I had not fallen for Lawrence completely. My self-confidence and heart were still intact.

At a quarter to four I answered the phone expecting it to be my four o'clock appointment either canceling or calling to say she would be late. It was Lila, my boss.

"Chloe, so sorry to bother you on Sunday, but all hell is breaking loose."

"Lila? What happened? Where are you?" I knew Lila wasn't due in till later that night.

"I'm at LAX and it's horrible. My flight is delayed due to rainy weather. Can you believe it? I absolutely hate L.A. Remind me to never fly out of this airport again."

"I’m making a note of it now. So what do you need me to do?" I smiled. Lila was such a drama queen. Everything was an emergency and had to be done yesterday or the world would end. I was used to rushed phone calls and Lila shooting off a million instructions at once.  My pen was already poised over a pad of paper.

"Well, first of all, thanks to Marcus Blanchard we may very well lose the Soft-Glo Fabric Softener account.  Someone on his team tweeted on their account instead his personal Twitter, something about doing body shots off a stripper and YOLO. I need you to set up a meeting with Hampton, Marcus, and myself for first thing in the morning. We'll need at least an hour and a half, and make sure they all know that this is mandatory.  Marcus has screwed up for the last time. Also, I'm going need an hour sometime tomorrow with just Hampton and myself."

I scribbled furiously. Lila had given me at least ten things to do that night and was in the process of giving me one more when there was a knock at the door. I rushed to answer the door, holding the phone to my face with my shoulder and trying to walk and write at the same time. 

"And I need to fly out to Chicago next week,” Lila was saying as I opened the door. With great relief I greeted the white man before me.

"Hold on one sec, Lila. Hi! Come in, come in, the bathroom's down that hall, first door on your right. Okay, I'm sorry, Lila. Go ahead, Chicago next week."

As I turned my back to the front door I heard it click shut. With any luck, Mr. Tucci's cousin would be in and out before my four o'clock. Speaking of which… I glanced at the wall clock.
Where the hell was she?
 

"Yes, see if you can get me a direct flight on Sunday afternoon. I have to be there for a meeting Monday morning, the usual hotel." 

"Got it, Lila. I'll take care of it tonight." 

A tone on the line indicated I had another call.  

"Anything else, Lila?"

"Yes, but they're boarding my flight. I'll send you an email with the rest from the plane." 

"I'll be looking out for it. Have a safe flight." 

"Thanks, talk to you later." 

She was gone and I hit the flash button to switch lines. At the same time I turned to find the plumber standing in the entryway.

Into the phone I said, "Hello." To the plumber: "Done already?  The water is still running.  Don't tell me you couldn't fix it!"

"Fix what?” Lawrence and the guy in my apartment both asked.  

"The shower! Mr. Tucci said you knew what you were doing. It's been running all day and... Lawrence?"

"Lawrence?” questioned the plumber.

"Lawrence, what do you want?  We have nothing to say to each other."

"Come on, Chloe.  I knew you'd be sour so I thought I'd give you a day or so to calm down before I explained."

"Oh, you mean there's an explanation as to why I caught you in bed with some girl when you were supposed to be home with the flu?"

"I never said I had the flu."

"Lawrence, I really don't have time for this mess. I have the plumber here telling me he can't fix my shower and I'm expecting a lady here any minute to view the apartment. Your lies will have to wait."

"I'm not the plumber,” said the plumber.

"Look, Lou, Mr. Tucci said... Wait. What?”

"I'm not
the
plumber. I'm not
a
plumber. I'm here to see the apartment."

"You are?"

"He is?” asked Lawrence. 

"Shut up, Lawrence. Listen, there must be some mistake. Did Mr. Tucci send you? He told me I could try and find a roommate on my own first. Look, I have a four o'clock coming in any second now. Pat Murphy."

"I'm Patrick Murphy,” said the plumber.

Chapter Three

Sexist Much?

Chloe

I immediately hung up the phone. "You're a woman. I mean, Pat Murphy is a woman."

The man in my foyer smiled. "Well, I've been called many things, but never that."

The phone rang. I ignored it. 

"It's just that…” I cocked my head to the side. "Didn't you read the ad? It said single female seeking roommate." 

He smiled again and this time I noticed he had deep dimples. "Yes, but it didn't say seeking female roommate." He had a point.  I just shook my head. The phone stopped ringing. I was at a loss for words. Thankfully, I was saved from having to answer when there was yet another knock at the door. I realized that a part of me was in denial over this mix-up when I answered the door, as I still expected to see a woman smiling at me and saying she was Pat Murphy. Instead, a dead-ringer for Joe Pesci greeted me.

"You Chloe?” asked a man who was so obviously Lou, the plumber.

"Yes, come on in. It's down the hall, first door on your right."

Lou nodded in Patrick's direction and headed towards the bathroom. I sighed and gestured for Patrick to follow me into the living room, then offered him a seat, which he took on the couch. I wheeled on him suddenly and asked, "Why is your email address patmurphy-at-cybermail-dot-com?"

"Patrick Murphy was taken."

He had me there. I don't know why, but I was fishing to prove he had deliberately misled me into thinking Pat was Patricia—probably because I had just recently been lied to by another man. Patrick must have seen the little wheels turning in my head because then he said, "Listen, this obviously seems to be bothering you. In my defense, the ad didn't specify that you were looking for a female roommate. I'm really interested in the apartment, but if it's going to make you uncomfortable..." He let the sentence trail off. 

I wasn't sure what my next move should be. My first instinct was to take him up on his offer and show him the door, but why?  It's true that I hadn't given much thought to living with a male roommate, but not because I was totally against it. It's just that it had never crossed my mind. I assumed only other single women would want to room with a single woman. Prehistoric thinking, but there it was. Even if I could get past the male thing, there was still the white thing. I had confessed to Myra that living with a white woman wouldn't pose a problem for me, but a white man?  Well, that's a horse of another color, or the same color, or... never mind. Am I willing to turn him away because of the color of his skin?  Did that make me a racist? 

Hadn't I been willing to show the apartment to, and chat with—well, in Rebecca's case, maybe not chat
with
so much as listen to—both Rebecca and LaKeera when I knew almost right off that I couldn't live with them? What would be the harm in at least letting him see the apartment?  Plus, this was my last hope for today and, unless a bunch of people popped out of the woodwork in the next week, it may be my last chance period.

Patrick studied me as I ran all this through my brain. "I'll just get out of your way." He stood to leave. 

"No, no, sit down. I'm sorry. Yes, I thought you were a woman but there's no reason you can't at least view the place." 

"That's very nice of you,” he said with a smirk.

I couldn’t tell if he was getting smart with me. I was about to call him on it when Lou came out of the bathroom. 

"All fixed."

"Finally. What was wrong with it?"

"Young lady, if I explained it to you, would you know what I was talking about?"

Normally I’d have called him on his condescending shit, but I was just happy the problem was solved. “Will it happen again?"

"Probably. Just tell Vinnie to call me when it does." And then he was gone. 

"Charming guy,” said Patrick, who didn't look like a Patrick at all.

"Are you Irish?  You don't look Irish."

He smirked again and I realized it was the way he smiled that gave off the smartass impression. The right side of his mouth went up in kind of a half smile. There was something cocky yet boyish about it.

“Yes, I am. My brothers tease that my father was really the mailman. My sisters prefer the whole
mommy and daddy found you in the garbage
tale.”

"I guess I expected fair skin, red hair, freckles—”

“And a vagina. You also expected a vagina.”

My mouth fell open in surprise. We’d just met. He couldn’t toss around vagina jokes! He ignored the look on my face and kept going. “The fair skin, red hair, and freckles would be my older sister, Margaret, and my brother Liam. And before you ask there are seven of us: in order from oldest to youngest are Thomas, Kellam, Margaret, Catherine, Liam, myself, and Charlotte.”  He ticked off each name with his fingers. “What about you?"

“Me? I'm not Irish." I said.

He squinted at me briefly and then laughed. I joined in after a moment. We continued to talk about his family and then our work. I was a bit apprehensive when he told me he was an aspiring actor and could just imagine how he planned on paying his share of the bills, but then he informed me of his full-time job as a personal trainer at a popular health club not far from the apartment. I breathed a sigh of relief. While he talked about his job and his hopes for his acting career, I casually checked him out. 

He was quite good looking: dark thick hair, hazel eyes, and that smile. Well, he had two smiles; there was the little half smile he had when he was being sarcastic or saying something witty, and then there was the full-blown smile he gave when talking about his family. It revealed even white teeth and impossibly deep dimples. He was dressed comfortably in a pair of flat front khaki pants and a short-sleeved button up white shirt. It wasn’t hard to imagine his face on television, not hard at all. He seemed to like the apartment and said it was just what he was looking for. We were in the kitchen when my cell rang. And rang. And rang.