Chapter 5
THE BACON IS NOT ONLY burning; it is actively ablaze.
Flames are leaping from the pan when I arrive to find the three men in the kitchen, panic in their voices as they bicker over what to do.
Alistair’s on a chair, poking at the buttons on the wailing smoke detector, while Grant swings a broom, fanning the air.
Diego moves toward the stove with a pitcher of water.
“No!” I cry, and they freeze, Diego stopping so suddenly, some of the water spills. “It’s a grease fire. Water will make it worse.” I lunge for the stove and turn off the burner, dodging the inferno still raging in the frying pan. “Salt?” I ask. “Or baking soda?”
Three pairs of eyes blink at me through the smoke. Grant gives the air a broad swipe with his broom.
Shit. “Fire extinguisher?”
Grant points toward the cabinet below the sink. “Down there, maybe?”
I lurch for it, yanking open the little door.
The space is a clutter of cleaning liquids and sponges, but a red canister peeks from behind the pipes.
I grab it, knocking over a sticky bottle of dish soap.
Crossing back to the stove, I scan the directions on the side of the extinguisher.
I’ve never had to use one before, but I pull the pin, aim the hose, and squeeze the handle.
White foam explodes across the stovetop, and the fire is out.
No one moves. My heart is racing, and the smoke detector is still going off, the sustained wail rattling my skull. I may vomit again.
Eyes watering from the lingering smoke, I gesture toward Alistair, still on the chair. He’s replaced his towel with a pair of black boxer briefs with an inseam bordering on negligible. I’m going to be able to draw this guy from memory before noon.
I point to the hateful disk still screaming above him. “Don’t bother with the buttons. See if you can get the battery out.”
He gets to work, and I look to the others. “Open every window you can. The doors, too. Let’s get some air in here.”
Diego gives me a thumbs-up, and Grant nods emphatically, like he’s grateful for the direction.
They leave the kitchen while I put the fire extinguisher back under the sink, righting the soap I knocked over, and close the cabinet.
The smoke detector cuts off mid-beep, but my ears are ringing.
I brace myself against the sink, hands gripping the porcelain rim as I take in long, slow, vomit-abating breaths.
When I’m confident enough that I’ll be retaining whatever’s left in my stomach, I face the kitchen again. The smoke has cleared some, and there are scorch marks across the stovetop. “How long had that been cooking?” I ask.
“Dunno.” Alistair’s still on the chair, holding the smoke detector in one hand and the nine-volt battery he removed from it in the other. Frowning, he raises the battery to eye level, then, after a moment’s consideration, sticks the business end to his tongue.
He lets out a little “Yip!” at the resulting shock, then chuckles, his smile dazzling. He extends the battery my way. “Feisty.”
I decide that a response isn’t necessary and cast my watery eye over the room.
The counter is a clutter of dirty dishes, last night’s empties, and dark plastic tubs covered in aggressive fonts declaring tens of grams of protein per serving.
The only solid foods I see are a speckled bunch of bananas well past their prime, whatever bacon might be left in the package, which is precariously close to the stovetop, and some protein bars.
I pick one up. Tastes just like birthday cake! Wouldn’t bet on it.
Grant reenters the kitchen, still brandishing the broom, Diego behind him. “Ellie, I’m so sorry about that! We were trying to get a head start on the breakfast tacos you said you’d make, and we decided to get our workout in, but I guess that was too long. Or we had the pan too hot?”
I toss the bar back onto the counter. I said I’d make breakfast tacos? That… tracks.
“You wrote out a list of stuff we’d need to pick up, but I was going to get what we didn’t already have after we worked out. You made a couple of lists, actually.” He reaches into the pocket of his shorts, fishing around until he finds a folded slip of paper, and hands it to me.
It’s a Michael’s receipt that I still need to expense, but written on the back in a vibrant teal brush-tip marker is a list in my distinctive handwriting.
The heading reads Taco Fixins, followed by the groceries Grant mentioned, but it’s the list farther down the receipt that catches my eye.
To-dos in the face of suddenly single status.
Lord. Even three sheets to the wind, I just can’t help my neurotic self.
Division of property, it begins. Find a place to put said property—go through with the Dawghouse? Recoup my half of deposit/first and last from apt with Cole. Hate him. Many expenses ahead. Deductible, etc. Part-time job? This color is too whimsical for this task.
“I love your handwriting.” Diego taps the paper. “Your A looks like a star!”
“Thank you.” I frown at the teal-tinted rambling. “Did I go over this with you guys,” I ask, wondering how thoroughly I’d detailed my plight, “or was I just scribbling like a weirdo?”
“Mostly like a weirdo,” says Alistair, who seems content to remain standing on a chair in the middle of the kitchen.
“We, um, have an idea, for the part-time job, if that’s cool?” says Grant, managing to break the offer up into multiple questions. “Because Ian’s looking for someone to work the front desk at his gym. Like, help members check in, handle the social posts, do some cleaning—”
“Was it you who cleaned that bathroom?” Diego interrupts, the question bursting from him with the same intensity with which a detective would reveal the name of the murderer in a whodunnit.
I nod, and he, once again, beams. “I could tell that someone had made it fresh. It was nice to greet my face this morning without having to move around a giant penis.”
Grant points to Diego as though his contribution proved a point. “So, you’re obviously qualified for the gym job. And, um…” He swallows, eyes darting from Diego up to Alistair. “We might have a solution for another item on there.”
“You have some thoughts on the blue I used?” I ask, glancing back at my list.
“Way too whimsical for a list with ‘deductible’ on it,” says Alistair. Before I can worry about how much he might have read into that, he adds, “We want you to move in.”
I huff a laugh, but Alistair doesn’t respond to his own punchline. “You—” I look from him to the other guys. “Seriously?”
The guys glance back and forth at one another. Grant resumes the role of spokesman. “Yes?”
“You do remember that I’m way, way older than y’all, right?”
Grant shrugs it off. “So’s my brother. That was never a big deal.”
“And you’re way more fun than Ian,” Diego adds. “No offense, Grant.”
“Nah. Ian’s boring as hell.”
I tap my chest. “I am boring as hell. Last night was an outlier.”
“Which makes it even cooler that you owned us in flip cup!” Grant persists. “You’re funny and fancy and smart, and—” He uses the broom to indicate the scorched stovetop. That’s absolutely coming out of their deposit. “You know how to avoid a grease fire!”
“True,” I say, not quite believing that I’m actually entertaining this.
But other than the massive gap in ages, interests, and standards of cleanliness, why not?
Aside from what might, I realize, be a minor case of alcohol poisoning, I had a damn blast last night.
So, provided there are no further flirtations with death by booze, why can’t I simply postpone reality for a little longer?
When I left my neurologist’s yesterday, the paperwork he handed off included a copy of the email exchange he had with my gynecologist, Dr. Selah.
A courtesy, as endometriosis patients appear to be at a higher risk of developing other autoimmune diseases, predominantly MS. The numbers aren’t significantly higher, but, as per the good doctor, “They’re not negligible. ”
Dr. Selah’s reaction had been priceless: Can’t this woman get a break?
That same insistent energy that had me accepting the guys’ offer for pizza sparks to life.
Maybe I can! This can be my break. I can manage my own business from anywhere, and it’s flexible enough that any schedule I end up with at this gym can be worked around.
If I can do this while coddled in an onslaught of blind admiration, it sounds like a win-win.
Provided one looks past the nightmarish state of things around the house. Which, even with only one functioning eye, I cannot.
“That is so generous—” I start. Grant and Diego’s faces fall. Alistair is looking at his phone, produced from who knows where, but his brows twitch down in some degree of disappointment. It’s like I’ve declared that Christmas is canceled.
“That’s a no,” Diego grumbles.
“Not at all! I’m just”—trying to come up with a polite way to convey that I find your standard of living unacceptable and that if every trip to the restroom carries the threat of Chia Pet toes, I’m not going to make it a week—“wondering if you’d be cool with me helping you elevate things around here a bit. ”
They nod, eyes going distant in thought or incomprehension.
“Like, clean the bathrooms. Properly,” I clarify. “Shop for more than protein bars.”
“We don’t even buy those,” Grant says, leaning into the broom like it’s a wizard’s staff. “We get them from Ian.”
“Because we’re usually broke,” says Alistair.
“Budgeting!” I say. “I can help you with that, too. Get you set up with an app.”
“You would do all of that?” Alistair asks, sounding genuinely interested.
“It’s what I live for.” I tap my sternum again. “Boring as hell, remember?”
Grant brays out his distinctive laugh. “Oh. You’re gonna be perfect for the gym.”
“And here! Food in the fridge, no more penises on the mirror,” Diego says. “Oh! Could you help us with cooking, too? Like, show us how?”
“Absolutely,” I say, and his whole face lights up.
“To be clear, I won’t be your maid. I’ll help set up a baseline for the house and get you more comfortable in the kitchen, but if we’re doing this, it’s something you’ll have to maintain.
” I’ve done enough man-coddling. This isn’t simply me imposing my standard of living on three collegiate males.
I’ll be sparing future partners the indignity of pube-dusted bathroom floors and the burden of undoing years of learned helplessness. This could change lives.
A tendril of excitement begins to weave through me. Cole’s “Now what?” from Monday takes on new meaning. Now what? This!
“Like a mentor. For adult stuff,” Alistair muses.
Grant shrugs. “I’m in. It’s what? May? And we’re gonna be here at least through May of next year. So, even if you wanted to just try it for a little while—”
“A six-month lease!” I say, plucking the timeline from the no-man’s-land of my con list. I reach out a hand to shake on it. “Do we have a deal?”
All three grasp my outstretched hand, chorusing, “Deal!” The resulting handshake is vigorous enough to jostle my upper body, and I’m reminded of the adhesive support system rigged up beneath my dress.
“Great!” I say. “First order of business: Do we have any cooking oil?”