Roommating

Chapter One

M y seventy-two-year-old roommate Marcia is a ten.

I make this observation from behind my phone, primed to record her placing the first book on the black four-tier revolving bookshelf we spent most of our Sunday afternoon struggling to put together. “Are you ready?” I ask her.

Marcia shakes her head of chin-length salon-dyed blond hair.

“I’m not sure. Why are there so many extra screws?

Shouldn’t we have used them all?” Her gaze dips to the small clear bag holding at least ten leftover screws on the dark wood living room floor of our two-bedroom apartment in Union Square.

I shrug. “They’re probably spares. Ikea is generous that way.”

This may or may not be true, but the bookshelf is standing, which must count for something.

I tuck my phone into the pocket of my high-waisted wide-leg jeans and squat.

Then I slide the bag of extra screws under one of the flattened cardboard boxes at our feet before straightening my legs.

Out of sight. Out of mind. “See? No extra screws anymore.”

“Clever,” Marcia says, her blue eyes twinkling. With a grunt, she bends her knees and retrieves the bag. “We should store them somewhere safe, just in case.”

I laugh. “It’s a good thing one of us is sensible, huh?”

She blows a raspberry. “I think you mean old.”

I smile fondly at her. I’d swallow a container of retinol in one gulp to look as good as Marcia in my seventies.

“Age is relative. Compared to my twenty-four, sure, you’re old er .

But the guy in front of us at Trader Joe’s yesterday?

Ninety if he’s a day. Compared to him, you’re but a young grasshopper. ”

She waves me off and regards me with soft eyes. “Have I told you lately how happy I am that you live here?” She squeezes my forearm affectionately.

Warmth fills my belly. “Not as happy as I am,” I say, meaning it.

When I first moved to Manhattan from Connecticut after graduating college more than a year and a half ago, I shared a one-bedroom apartment with two girls I’d connected with through Craigslist. Our place was party central for pre- and post-bar outings several nights a week.

It was all fun and games at first, but the lifestyle wasn’t sustainable while taking two courses a semester toward my master’s in library and information science and working approximately fifteen hours a week as a library page at a branch of the New York Public Library.

Trying to focus on schoolwork in a “bedroom” partitioned with sheets while perpetually drunk twenty-three-year-olds shout “Woo!” on repeat less than ten feet away… well, I don’t recommend it.

Then I saw a segment on the Today show about a roommate app that matched younger adults with older people who had rooms to spare, and I found Marcia.

The deal is, I pay obscenely low rent—by New York City standards—in exchange for taking care of the more physical burdens in her life, helping care for Rocket, her precious but hyperactive Jack Russell terrier, and demystifying the techie things that frequently trip her up.

Even with the dismal salary I make at the library and paying my own way through grad school with loans, I can afford it.

It’s been a dream—both the living arrangement and Marcia, who’s become one of my best friends.

“Do you like it here?” Marcia asks.

For a second, I think she’s read my mind, but she’s referring to the bookshelf’s current placement in front of the window overlooking Fourteenth Street and to the right of the dark-gray suede sectional couch.

“It’s perfect. Time to christen this bad boy,” I say, gesturing to the hardcover copy of Nothing Like the Movies on the granite-covered square coffee table.

She chews her lip. “Maybe you should do the honors.”

I cock my head. “Do you want to take the video then?”

“I’d probably cut off your head, so no.”

I chuckle. “You said it, not me.” Marcia is comically horrible at taking pictures with her phone. We haven’t even attempted video yet.

“But I must look awful!” She stretches her royal blue sweatshirt over her cropped black leggings and smooths down her hair.

“You look gorgeous, but I won’t post unless you approve it first.”

She sighs and plucks the book off the table.

Victory . I clap. “Yay!” Once I confirm she’s ready, I start filming. “Momentous moment here! Watch as Marcia places the first book on the gorgeous bookshelf we just put together. Go for it, Marcia!”

Marcia flashes a smile and hams it up, spinning the four-and-a-half-foot shelf for a full rotation before letting it come to a stop and carefully placing Nothing Like the Movies on one of the top shelves.

From behind my phone, I shout, “Woo-h—”

Thunk .

The slab of wood holding the book crashes to the ground, taking Nothing Like the Movies and the three shelves below with it.

I jump. Marcia gasps. We share a moment of silence while we survey the crash site. I turn off the video. “Well, that was unfortunate.”

Marcia points at me with what I’ve come to recognize over the last seven months as mock annoyance. “ They’re probably spares , she said. Ikea is generous that way , she said.”

“Fine. You win! They’re not spares, and Ikea is the worst.”

We burst into laughter.

Rocket barks, a piece of paper dropping from his mouth with wet and mutilated cartoon images of the Ikea instructions man pointing unhelpfully at black arrows and slabs of wood.

Since we’ve long passed our threshold for playing carpenter, we decide to shelve (pun intended) the project to revisit at an undetermined time in the future. An hour later, we’re at the white circular table in our small dine-in kitchen sharing an extra-cheese pizza.

I take a bite of my second slice. “Is it me or does pizza taste better after hours of grueling labor not building a bookshelf?”

“Mm-hmm.” Marcia dabs at her mostly uneaten first slice with a napkin, letting it soak up the grease.

“Is everything all right?” I ask.

She’s been uncharacteristically quiet since putting in the order with Unregular Pizza using the Slice app I downloaded on her phone.

“Yes. I’m sorry. Just… thinking. But I’m glad you like the pizza. Brenda from the gym recommended the place.” She cuts into a slice using her knife and fork and takes a bite, looking a bit like a child forced to eat his broccoli.

“Are you upset about the furniture? I might have oversold my skills. We should have paid someone in the building to do it.” Rocket brushes against my leg under the table wanting food. I gently push him away.

She lowers her fork to her plate, the metal causing a clinking sound as it hits the ceramic. “I actually know someone who might be able to help us. I’ve been meaning to talk to you about him.”

Him? Since I’ve lived here, I don’t think a single man has gotten beyond the threshold of our apartment.

After letting boys and partying affect my schoolwork when I first moved to the city, dating has now taken a back seat to pursuing my dream of becoming a librarian…

like so far back, it’s in another car. But Marcia’s husband died ten years ago, and since she’s retired from teaching, she has plenty of time on her hands.

Maybe she’s ready to date. “Tell me more about him !” I lean forward on my elbows.

“It’s Adam.”

My eyes widen while my arms drop to my sides.

“Adam as in your grandson, Adam?” I don’t know much about him except that her son kept them apart for the last decade.

There are several pictures of Adam in the living room and her bedroom, including from his bar mitzvah more than ten years ago, but nothing more recent. “What did he want?”

“He’s going through a tough time professionally. He just got laid off from his last position.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

Marcia must catch the note of sarcasm in my voice because she levels her eyes at me. “He apologized for letting his father come between us and insisted he does not share his views. He wants us to have a relationship.”

“Well, that’s great!” As if it weren’t hard enough for Marcia to come out to her friends and family as bisexual in her sixties, her own son couldn’t handle it and basically ejected her from his life, further punishing her by removing access to Adam.

She smiles timidly. “Rather than jumping right into yet another job, he’s decided to take a short break to figure out what he really wants to do next.

Since graduating from UPenn, he’s been through several jobs trying to find the right fit.

His father and stepmother refuse to pay for his ‘vacation from life,’ so I’m thinking about inviting him to stay with me for a little while.

With us.” She clarifies, “On the couch. If it’s okay with you. ”

My mouth falls open, but I quickly snap it shut. Marcia’s still speaking, and I want to hear her out.

“I hate to put you in an awkward position, but I’ll make sure he stays out of your way. And it’s not forever. It’s just… I don’t know him very well. My own grandson.” Marcia’s features collectively droop in barefaced sadness.

My heart splinters a little. “It’s fine! This is your apartment. You can invite anyone you want to stay over.” I mean every word, though I’m sure I’ll have more feelings on the matter once I have time to digest it.

Rocket lets out three barks as if expressing his agreement.

Then again, Rocket is almost always barking unless he’s asleep or having his belly or ears rubbed.

“Seriously. This seems like a great opportunity for you two to bond. I’m all for it,” I say.

I can’t really blame Adam for allowing his father to keep him from Marcia when he was a boy.

And I fully support him making up for lost time as a man.

Marcia blows out a breath of relief. “Thank you!”

I watch as she grabs her slice of pizza with both hands and bites into it with gusto.

Thrilled to see her spirits back up, my mind wanders to my own late grandma, Nana Lena.

We spent every day together for most of my life, and although we were close when I was super little…

well, let’s just say teenage Sabrina wouldn’t win any granddaughter-of-the-year awards.

I regret wasting so many opportunities to bond with her now that she’s gone.

I regret a lot when it comes to her. Even though I’ve never met Adam, I don’t want him to have those same regrets with Marcia.

After dinner, Marcia goes to her room to call Adam, and when she returns, she’s beaming.

He’s accepted her offer to move in temporarily and will be here on Wednesday.

She retires for the night, and I stay in the living room to watch an episode of Selling Sunset .

It occurs to me that once Adam moves in, I might have to watch all my shows on my laptop since the couch out here will now be his bed.

I toss the gray chunky-knit throw blanket off my lap and walk over to the leaning white ladder shelf set against the opposite wall.

It’s decorated with plants, glass figurines and other tchotchkes, and picture frames, including one of a teenage Adam in a navy-blue suit, powder-blue yarmulke over his brown hair and white prayer shawl draped across his narrow shoulders.

The poor kid’s got metal braces and a serious T-zone situation going on, but his light blue eyes pop against his outfit.

He shares that feature with his grandma.

The first time I saw it, I told Marcia he was adorable.

In truth, he was about as adorable as the cast of Stranger Things after the first season, but I expect he’s probably grown out of his awkward stage by now.

I return to the couch and search for “Adam Haber” on Instagram, scrolling through the results until I find what I guess is the right one.

On his feed are some photos of the Philadelphia skyline, a few lake and hiking pics, a beer bottle against a setting sun, but none of him.

He’s in a few tagged photos, but they’re either profile shots, taken from behind, or his face is hidden by sunglasses.

I close out of Instagram assuming I’ll find out soon enough.

While washing my face and brushing my teeth before bed, I tidy up the vanity to make room for Adam’s stuff.

I’m thrilled for Marcia to bond with her grandson, and if greatness runs in the family, maybe we’ll become friends, but there’s also a slight pinch of anxiety in my gut.

Besides losing access to the couch and flat screen and sharing a bathroom with a dude, my dynamic with Marcia is bound to change.

Will she have as much time for me now that her estranged grandson is back in her life?

But I push aside these selfish thoughts.

I’ve had Marcia to myself for almost seven months, but she’s not my grandmother.

I won’t stand in the way of Adam bonding with his.