Chapter 9
Chapter nine
Jay
“Dammit,” she hisses, smacking the side of the machine like maybe physical violence will scare it into compliance. The machine beeps mockingly before refusing to spin. “You have one job: wash. So just do it.”
Hearing her mutter, “Useless,” under her breath, I make my way from the doorway into the laundry room.
“Having trouble?”
“It hates me,” she says, pointing accusingly at the machine. “I’m telling you, I did everything right, and it still refuses to cooperate.”
She says it like a joke, but there’s a catch in her voice that I’m not even sure she realizes is there. I don’t call her out, though. I crouch, scanning the buttons. The thing’s ancient, half the machines in this building are. “Or it’s just old. These things are finicky.”
She snorts, clearly amused. “Finicky is a funny word.”
I shrug. “It was in a crossword puzzle I did last week.”
Her head tips, eyes glinting. “You do crosswords? Like, voluntarily?”
“Sometimes at work. They’re good for the brain.” I press a couple of buttons, and nothing happens.
“Right, because nothing says fun like little black and white boxes mocking you for not knowing an eight-letter word for ‘obscure.’”
“Esoteric,” I reply before I can stop myself.
She blinks at me, lips twitching. “Oh my god, you’re obsessed.”
I can feel the corner of my mouth tugging sideways—damn it, she makes it way too easy. “Don’t judge me.”
“I wouldn’t dare,” she says with mock solemnity. “You’re the one whose bed I’m currently stealing, trust me, I’m not judging.”
“Is it stealing if I offered it?” I ask, straightening.
“I guess not.”
I tug open the side panel, fish around, and come up with a fistful of coins and bobby pins. “Well. Found the problem.”
As soon as I clear it out, the drum whirs, and the red light stops flashing.
Liv gasps. “Traitor. Look at it, purring for you like a cat.”
I can’t help the smirk tugging at my mouth.
“You’ll have to let me pay you back, somehow, as a thank you. I’d offer to cook you something, but I’m nowhere near as talented as you are.”
I tilt my head, staring at her. It’s not the first time she’s wanted to compensate for kindness, as though the idea of owing someone something is too much. “I don’t need anything, I’m happy to help you, Liv.”
Her eyes dart around, trying to find something to say, but after a few seconds of her mouth opening and closing, she settles on, “Well, thank you.”
Heat prickles at my neck, spreading faster than a wildfire. I mutter, “You’re welcome.”
Liv is already moving on. Her arm brushes against mine as she reaches to turn the dial and press start. “So, since we’re on the subject of cooking and your talents… what’s on the menu this week, because everything you’ve made so far has been ten out of ten.”
Everything I’ve made being less than two weeks of meals since she moved in, but I didn’t miss the fact that she’s been writing her favorites on the fridge Post-its, which is every dish, actually.
“I don’t need much convincing,” I say, straightening.
“Cooking’s just what I do. I enjoy it.” It keeps me moving, keeps my head clear.
With how much time I spend hunched over a screen, it’s good to use my hands for something real.
The rhythm of it—chop, stir, taste, it’s all a distraction to fill the space where thoughts about everything else try to creep in.
Like the list of rejection emails from the jobs I’ve applied for lately.
It’s a sting of remembering what it feels like to be the lesser choice with every one I receive.
“I was planning on something with chicken tonight.”
Liv hums, looking at me in a way she hasn’t yet, as though she really sees me. “You know, you’re amazing. Most people get roommates who eat cereal out of the box.”
I huff out a laugh. “Cereal has its place.”
“Not when I’ve got you making, wait, what was that called again?”
“Feijoada.”
“Yeah, it’s becoming my new favorite thing,” she says genuinely, then says something that pushes the threatening blush out the window. “But I have a date tonight.”
I school my expression into something easy, but inside, there’s a flicker of disappointment I don’t have the right to feel.
She’s allowed to date, of course she is, and I’m not stupid enough to think dinner with me was ever more than convenience.
But I’d liked the idea of it. Liked the way she looked at me when she talked about food.
Hearing she’s going out with someone else forces me to tuck that tiny spark of something back where it belongs. Probably for the best.
***
An hour later, we’re both folding our laundry in the living room. I grab my phone, connecting it to the speakers and playing Post Malone’s album.
“Wait, you like Post Malone?”
“Yeah?”
“Huh. I like learning things about you. It’s kinda like a surprisingly attractive puzzle.”
A huff of a laugh escapes me. “As opposed to those really ugly puzzles.”
“Hate those. What else you got for me? Surprise me some more.”
My mind goes blank, kinda like when you’re in a group of people, and you need to do an icebreaker and hate every second of the ‘hi, I’m Jay, I live in Oregon, and my favorite color is blue’ shit.
“I don’t have a clue what would surprise you, since I thought liking Post Malone was normal?”
She chuckles, the sound carrying around us. “Okay, that’s fair. I guess I just assumed you’d be more of a John Mayer fan?”
“I can’t be both?”
“You can. I actually like that you’re both. That’s what’s surprising. You’ve got layers.”
I shake my head, folding one of my shirts into a too-neat square.
“Come on, give me something else. Favorite place to go when you’re sad? Weird habit? Secret tattoo?”
I arch a brow. “You think I’m hiding ink somewhere?”
Her grin is immediate. “Tell me you wouldn’t look hot with a sleeve.”
Heat creeps up my neck, and I focus way too hard on smoothing the corner of a T-shirt. “No tattoos. Yet.”
That one word has her eyes glinting. “Yet. Interesting.”
“Do I need to know your favorite place to go when you’re sad?”
“Why?”
“So I can find you and feed you feijoada, of course.”
She pairs her socks thoughtfully. “I like the water. You’ll probably find me crying, adding to the volume of a lake somewhere. Or in the bath, a little less dramatic, maybe. But be warned if there’s Celine Dion playing, approach with caution.”
I nod, storing that information away, hoping I won’t need it. “Noted.”
“Your turn.”
“I don’t get sad often, but I like solitude, so probably in my room.”
She pulls out a thong, and I try to ignore it. “Listening to John Mayer?”
I laugh under my breath. “Yeah, something like that.”
We continue chatting and revealing pieces of ourselves to one another until the only sound is Post Malone playing through the speakers and the shuffle of fabric as we fold side by side. It’s ordinary, but I like that I know more about her.
“So tell me about your date tonight,” I say, half wanting to hear about it and half not at all.
She twists her lips, avoiding my eyes. “He seems… nice.”
“That wasn’t very convincing.”
The exhale that leaves her feels weighty as her blue eyes find mine. “He’s great, seems a bit confident, but that’s not an issue, it’s that there’s a feeling I can’t put my finger on.”
Confusion pulls at my brow. “So why are you going on the date at all?”
She considers her answer and takes a second to respond. “I don’t know. You’ll think I’m ridiculous.”
“Try me,” I say. “I’ve grown up with older sisters, and Hudson is my best friend, not a lot can faze me, Liv.”
She pauses, eyes fixed on the shirt in her hands. “I don’t know. Maybe I just want to see if I can still tell the difference between good intentions and bad ones.” A weak laugh slips out. “God, that sounds dramatic, doesn’t it?”
“I don’t think it’s dramatic,” I say. “I think it means you’re putting yourself out there.”
She hums like she doesn’t believe me, but the corners of her mouth give her away before asking, “What do you mean?”
“I mean, it seems to me that you learned along the way that not everyone who says the right things actually means them. And that’s not a bad lesson, even if it came the hard way.”
Her hands pause, fingers resting against the cotton shirt she’s holding.
Then her eyes find mine, and there’s a glossy look in them, one that holds secrets I’m starting to realize she’s not ready to share.
I know that feeling, carrying that feeling of being less; I’ve been there with my work.
It’s a tough pit to climb out of, and I’m not totally sure I have yet, but being here with her, wondering if she feels a similar way I do, makes me feel less alone.
“You got all that from me describing my date?”
“I literally spend my life looking at people through a lens,” I say, keeping my attention on her. “I’ve gotten pretty good at reading faces.”
Her lips part, mouth opening to respond, but a buzzing sound alerts both of us when I realize it was her phone, and that moment is gone. Those blue eyes disconnect from mine.
“Daphne says they’re doing a scrapbook club at her house. Can we make it?”
The ‘we’ part doesn’t escape me. “When is it?”
“Next Friday night.”
“I’m good, can you make it?” I ask.
She nods while typing. “I can’t wait to have my scrapbook cherry popped.”
She’s already back to smiling, full of energy, and I can’t tell if that’s who she really is or just how she keeps the world from asking questions. Too bad for her, I’ve got a curious mind.