Legal Bindings

3. Nick

Unemployment wasn’ta good look on Nick. A week into his slothful tenure, he found himself unable to get out of bed. He hadn’t brushed his teeth in two days, and save for pissing and making the occasional snack run, he couldn’t make himself move. What was the point? He didn’t have anywhere to go, any clients to see, or any hours to bill. He was useless.

He was also starting to smell, he realized, as he reached for a nearly empty bag of chips and caught a whiff of his armpit. That wasn’t okay. In fact, it made him feel a little sick. He could only imagine what his grandmother would say if she could see him. Cleanliness being next to godliness was one of her core virtues, along with not putting off until tomorrow what one could do today.

A guilty conscience forced him up, and he surveyed the detritus of his bedroom. Though he normally kept it neat as a pin, he’d allowed his wallowing to get the better of him, and the scratched hardwood was strewn with wrappers, clothing, and the shattered remnants of a ballpoint pen he’d thrown at the wall on Tuesday, when he’d received a visitor—a courier waiting to take his termination papers back to McNeeley and Lowe.

He’d kept his calm in front of the messenger then broken the pen in private, after which he’d gone to bed and stayed there, looking at the blue spatter on the wall and the small, sticky pool of ink on the floor. Add another project to add to the never-ending list of things he couldn’t afford to do. What does it matter when I can’t keep the house?

Nick sighed, turning on the faucet in the tiny shower and waiting until the thin stream of water turned tepid instead of freezing before stepping beneath it. The house’s plumbing was shit and had been one of the first things on his list to fix, but the low water pressure felt like an appropriate punishment for being so stupid as to get fired by Liza Lowe, of all people. Liza had never had to work hard a day in her life, while Nick had fought for every scrap he’d ever earned. Even if those scraps currently amounted to a money pit full of rusted pipes and an occasional mildewy smell emanating from the drain.

“Two seconds to be sad, two seconds to be mad,” he muttered as he reached for the shampoo. He’d taught himself that self-soothing mantra while living in his first group home. There was no use crying or yelling—nobody cared, and the kids who had behavioral problems tended to end up somewhere worse—so Nick had learned to sit with his feelings for the briefest time possible then plaster a pleasant smile on his face as he dug a grave to bury those emotions in.

He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was repressing something. Probably, if he unpacked it, he’d find the reasons his marriage had been such a spectacular failure. But nobody was paying him to stand in a lukewarm shower and feel sorry for himself.

Nobody was paying him for anything, in fact, and when he stepped out of the shower and surveyed himself in the foggy bathroom mirror, he realized just how much time he’d wasted by wallowing. Ten years earlier, he wouldn’t have let a little thing like losing his job deter him. Having a series of cushy gigs had turned him soft and let him believe he could lie in bed, feeling sorry for himself. God helps those who help themselves, he thought—another of his grandmother’s sayings. It was funny how often he heard her in his mind.

Banishing the memory of her warm house and warmer embraces, Nick shaved, dressed, and spent twenty minutes sorting his room into some semblance of order before heading to the kitchen, where he discovered he was out of coffee, meaning a trip to the grocery store was in order. No more stopping for a morning brew at the coffee cart near his building—he needed to live frugally while he figured out his situation, though no amount of frugality would save the house. For that, he needed a new job, and soon. Unfortunately, he didn’t have a whole lot of connections in Seattle.

Of course, that was mostly Ben’s fault because Ben had been so goddamn charismatic that he hadn’t needed to network—people just gravitated to him. Nick, meanwhile, had done everything he could to build a base of contacts, only to find that when he and Ben divorced, nobody was interested in talking to him. He’d always been “Ben’s partner,” and when he wasn’t that anymore, he was “Ben’s ex.”

Nick grabbed his car keys and went straight to the closest grocery store, bypassing his usual overpriced organic market. The harsh fluorescent lights and jangly ’80s synth music playing over the speakers made his temples throb as he headed for the coffee aisle, where he was shocked to discover just how expensive a bag of beans could be. As he dropped a bag of medium roast into his cart, he heard a squabble the next aisle over, and his heart rate accelerated. It was an involuntary response to any raised voices, thanks to years in the group home, where he’d had to stay alert to make sure he wasn’t the target.

He managed to calm himself down by the time the arguing pair rounded the corner to his aisle. The two men—one in sweats and a Seahawks T-shirt, the other in a UW hoodie—were bickering over household supplies, and as they passed Nick, one of them vociferously declared, “Uh, no way, dude. I bought toilet paper last time.”

Roommates probably. Students. Nick shuddered, memories of his years sharing housing space coming upon him in an unwanted rush. First was the group home, with six boys crammed into three bunk beds and never enough room to hear himself think. Then came college. His scholarship had afforded him the economy dorm, where he’d lived with three other guys, one of whom had a serious addiction to cheap fast food and the gastrointestinal distress that came with it. Law school had been a comparative luxury. He’d had four housemates, yes, but a tiny room of his own. Then, he’d briefly shared an apartment with a classmate before meeting Ben and moving in with him at the ripe old age of twenty-six.

Nick’s apartment in San Francisco had been the first time he’d ever lived on his own, and the house in Seattle had been a testament to the fact that not only could he afford to be by himself, but he was choosing to invest in himself too. Three whole bedrooms, two baths, a living room, a dining room, a kitchen, and an attic, just for him.

Except that his mortgage lender was going to be foreclosing on him in, like, six months or less, thus proving to the world that Nick was, as ever, a failure of a human being.

Except,except…

The thought grabbed hold and wouldn’t let go. Roommates had money. Roommates could live in the extra bedrooms. Roommates could pay him more than enough to cover his mortgage and keep his house while he got back on his feet.

But also… ugh, roommates. Roommates were trouble. They were loud and rude, ate Nick’s food, and always managed to be where he wanted to be, taking up space and ruining his day.

Then again, maybe one or two ruined days were exactly what he needed to light a fire under his ass to find a new job fast.

“Dude, it’s not my fault you fucking live on Taco Bell!” The indignant yell floated across the store from—presumably—the toilet paper aisle, and Nick winced.

Yes, roommates could be very motivational, indeed.