Chapter 4
4
“This is endless .”
Theo and Evelyn are in the middle of packing up the bungalow’s office–slash–guest room when she flings herself onto the taupe suede futon, her Snoopy slipper–clad feet dangling off the armless end. Shoulder-length blond hair falls in front of her face, obscuring her forest-green eyes.
“You really don’t have to subject yourself to this, Theodore,” Evelyn continues. “It’s not your fault I’m a low-key hoarder.”
He raises an eyebrow. “ Low- key?”
She flips him off, then stands and declares it’s time for a bubble tea break and exits the room without asking him what he wants. She doesn’t have to. Alone, he returns to the boxes. Theo has spent the weekend helping Evelyn pack up nearly two decades of memories—their entire childhood, adolescence, early adulthood—into cardboard boxes. Pep and Mo’s bungalow has been a second home to Theo, a place that always felt warm and safe, even more so after his mom’s diagnosis. Colorectal cancer. Stage three. At home, Theo had to be okay, strong, a man . He was fourteen. A kid. But that didn’t matter to Jacob, his dad, who drilled those words into Theo over and over during the two years of treatments that spanned between Lori’s diagnosis and initial remission. At home, Theo felt nothing at all. Emotions were for the bungalow, where he could feel his feelings without judgment. So losing this space?
It’s a lot to process.
Theo doesn’t process.
He’s too busy packing, taping, and labeling boxes:
BOOKS
TCHTOCHKES
BLANKETS
So many blankets—all crocheted by Evelyn in various colors, patterns, and textures. Theo has lost count of how many blankets he’s folded. Just when he thinks he’s pulled the last one from the closet, another one appears. He folds and boxes and folds and boxes blanket after blanket while his favorite Survivor podcasters recap the most recent episode in his ears. A necessary distraction. Without gameplay analysis to keep him grounded, Theo would surely be losing his shit over some of these blankets. A blue-and-white checkerboard one that Evelyn was proud enough of upon completion to gift to his mom. A soft sage blanket that his mom started after she relapsed and Evelyn finished after she—
Theo pauses the podcast.
Wipes his eyes and forces himself to finish the thought.
—died.
After she died.
It’s been five years since her relapse and grief still bowls him over. Sometimes the trigger is obvious—Tom Hanks’s voice, any Dolly Parton song, a sage blanket. Other times, it hits him out of nowhere. Earlier this week, it was a perfectly ordinary day at school until Milo, a struggling speller, got a perfect score on a quiz using a memory trick that Theo learned from his mom back when he was a struggling speller and he just… wanted so badly to call her. Random moments like those are the worst, because that’s when Theo must sit with the truth that it’s never going away, this grief—and it’s always going to hurt. He has to be able to move through it. With Milo’s breakthrough, he sat with the grief as he slapped a Buzz Lightyear sticker on top of the quiz, then continued grading. In the case of the soft sage blanket that is still in his hands, he will fold it and box it and move on to the next blanket because sometimes it’s just easier to do than to feel.
Theo resumes the podcast.
Folds.
Boxes grief with the soft sage blanket.
And moves on.
Twenty minutes later, Evelyn returns with a lavender oat milk boba tea for herself and a peach green tea with mango pearls for him. Then she settles next to him and wraps some ceramic tchotchkes from the bookshelf. A cow, a crepe, a teacup. Her phone vibrates and she glances at the screen, her shoulders sagging before showing Theo. It’s a listing for a one bedroom in Lamanda Park, the area of Pasadena where he grew up: $2,100 a month.
“ Fuck. ”
“Who does Pasadena think she is? If Pep and Mo sold this place to a developer who’s just going to flip it into an Airbnb, I swear—” Evelyn cuts herself off and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Sorry. I’m spiraling and also just really sad.”
“I know,” Theo says, unsure how to begin to articulate how much the bungalow means to him, too.
He doesn’t have to.
When Evelyn looks at him, her eyes glassy, he knows she knows.
“Also? Crashing with Gen is going to be so awkward. She still won’t apologize.”
Of course she won’t. She can’t exactly apologize for something she didn’t do. Theo tapes shut a boxful of blankets as he considers how to respond because he knows full well that Gen doesn’t owe Evelyn an apology for submitting her portfolio to Next in Foley. He does. It’s been a week since she received her acceptance email, but she’s been in housing crisis mode. It’s the first time she’s brought it back up. Theo has meant to bring it up himself, but he didn’t expect her initial reaction to be so hostile. Seeing the look on her face when she read that email, he knew that he’d overstepped. Crossed a boundary.
Still, he owes her the truth.
“Ev—”
“And she has the audacity to act like she has no clue what I’m talking about! It’s a bit much, even for Gen—”
“It wasn’t Gen.”
Silence.
Her eyes meet his. “Seriously?”
Theo nods. “I’m sorry.”
She hurls a throw pillow at him. “What the actual fuck?”
“I’m sorry!” he repeats, catching the pillow before it topples his tea. Her aim is shit. “Everything about that fellowship is meant for you and… I guess I just thought you weren’t applying out of fear? I didn’t read the small print or even consider that the program wouldn’t include health insurance.”
“It doesn’t really matter what you thought, Theodore. I said no .”
“I know.”
Months earlier, when he encouraged her to apply, he heard her say that word, but he remembered the first time she described being in a Foley studio to him. In a way, it’s kind of like dancing and… I don’t know? I didn’t expect that to feel so good? She’d confided this over FaceTime, from their dorms on opposite coasts, her words tumbling out fast in excitement and her eyes sparkling with a passion he hadn’t witnessed since dancer was her identity. Their identity. And in the seven years since that conversation, Evelyn has worked so hard, done countless unpaid and underpaid internships, built a portfolio.
And, sure, he heard her say no. But he never considered that she meant it.
“I am so mad at you.”
“I know.”
Angry tears slide down her cheeks and it makes his chest tighten, a physical pain. Evelyn said no and he… just ignored it. Of course she’s pissed. Theo didn’t listen, opting instead to submit the application, as if he knew what was best for her. It’s something his father would do—something he did—all the time, whether it was signing off on clinical trials for his mom or submitting applications to colleges that Theo had no interest in attending. I just want you to have every opportunity, he’d say. Is that so wrong? Always, his dad would ask for forgiveness, not permission.
“I want it.” Evelyn’s admission is soft, and it cracks him in half. “ So bad. How am I supposed to keep mindlessly editing podcasts now?”
“Okay. Then let’s figure it out. What if—?”
“Theo.”
He winces. Theo. Another indication of how massively he screwed up.
Evelyn stands and presses the heels of her hands to her swollen eyes. “I need a beat.”
She then exits the room, ending the conversation and making it clear that there’s nothing to figure out—at least not with him. Evelyn leaves Theo sitting with the nauseating realization that applying to Next in Foley on her behalf was textbook Jacob Cohen behavior. He can’t fix this. Can’t go back in time and undo what he’s done. But he can finish folding these blankets. So he turns toward the mountain of them (seriously, how are there still so many goddamn blankets?), then packs up the rest of the memories into boxes and exits the bungalow without saying goodbye.
Theo makes a pit stop at Trader Joe’s on his way home, where he picks up an avocado, a carton of almond milk, cashew butter, whole wheat wraps, dried mango, maple-flavored almonds, honey-infused goat cheese, a week’s worth of vegetarian dinners from the freezer aisle, two bags of Impossible chicken nuggets, and a tub of dark chocolate peanut butter cups. He only meant to restock on almond milk, but he blacked out the moment the sliding doors opened, later returning to his car perplexed because he hates goat cheese and shit —was he that distracted?
Yes.
At home, he unloads the groceries to find not one but two varieties of goat cheese: honey and jalapeno.
He sniffs them.
Ugh.
Theo stickers each cheese with a yellow dot—the visual signal to his roommates that this is cheese for all, please eat it!—and sticks it in the deli drawer. He labels his food, then retreats to his room to grade math quizzes. Once finished, Theo removes himself from his desk and the grading to find Micah and Pranav playing Super Smash Bros. in the living room, Puck asleep on Pranav’s lap, unfazed as Pranav-as-Young-Link spin attacks Micah-as-Pikachu off the stage. Despite having played Super Smash Bros. countless times with the guys, Theo has no idea how that just happened. Pranav curses under his breath, then sets the parameters for the next round, his eyes fixated on the screen.
“Hey.”
Micah looks at Theo. “Want in?”
“Sure.”
He picks up a controller, selects Kirby, sinks into a beanbag chair, and tries to relax into the game. He cannot. Super Smash Bros. stresses him out. It’s too overstimulating—he never knows where to focus on the screen or which buttons to press in the most strategic order. He attempts a sneak attack on Micah that results in him launching Kirby off a cliff. Theo’s personal gaming preferences tend to be of the Animal Crossing and Sims variety—soothing and single-player.
“Have you had a chance to look over the lease renewal?” Theo asks as Kirby resurrects themself on the screen.
Pranav pauses the game. “About that…”
Instead of finishing his sentence, Pranav opts for a long sip from a can of LaCroix. Theo’s eyes shift from one roommate to the other. Micah’s left eyebrow is twitching. Both are avoiding eye contact with Theo—but also with each other. Shit. Did Pranav and Micah break up? Again? Pranav and Micah are codependent and chaotic and have an annual “we’re too young to be Domestic Gays” panic. But the breakup never lasts longer than a week, because despite their drama, they love being Domestic Gays.
Micah runs a hand through longer-on-the-top ginger hair, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “The thing is—”
“We fell in love with a condo in WeHo,” Pranav confesses.
Theo blinks. “What?”
“It all happened so fast,” Micah says.
Theo doesn’t understand how it’s happening at all. Pranav works in program strategy at Netflix. Micah is a PhD student at Caltech. These are people he commiserated with about inflation and the housing market and how screwed up it is that they can only afford to live here because of one another. How the fuck are they buying a condo in West Hollywood?
“It’s time to fully embrace our domestic truth,” Micah adds.
“And have a ten-minute commute. But we didn’t mean to blindside you,” Pranav says, as if that even matters. “Our first two offers fell through, so—”
Whatever the end of that sentence is, Theo doesn’t hear it. Offers? Plural? He short-circuits. Currently, Theo has enough money in his checking account to cover rent, groceries, and the luxury that is his Peloton membership… amassing the savings to be in a position to be able to make an offer on any property in LA County is unfathomable. Being a renter for the foreseeable future is his reality. And that’s fine. Theo likes his job. He’s content. Or he was, before learning that he’s hemorrhaging roommates and… he needs to think. Retreat to his spreadsheets. Crunch numbers. This unit is rent-controlled and it would suck to lose it and—
Theo is spiraling.
He resumes the game.
Detaches.
“Cool.”
“Cool,” Micah repeats.
“You’re pissed,” Pranav says.
“Truth bomb?” Micah asks. Theo’s nod is terse, but it’s enough permission for Micah to continue. “Since Imogen moved out of the bungalow, we sort of assumed it was only a matter of time until you moved in with Evie?”
“Why the fuck would you assume that?”
Pranav’s laughter scrapes against Theo’s skull. “Seriously?”
“You’re never here,” Micah says.
Theo smashes the controller keys in no particular order and somehow his Kirby shoves Pranav’s Young Link off the cliff. It’s incredibly satisfying. Victorious, he stands and drops the controller onto the beanbag. “Well. I’m sorry to inform you that Evelyn’s grandparents just sold the bungalow. She’s sort of in her own housing crisis.”
Micah and Pranav exchange a look before Pranav turns to Theo with a smirk. “You’re welcome.”
“What?”
“Sounds to me like you need a roommate and Evie needs a room.”
Oh.
Theo’s brain had jumped straight to panic mode, not even pausing to consider such an obvious solution. Ask Evelyn to live here. It’s not as if they’re not constantly together anyway. As roommates, their chill nights in can be even lazier. It could be so good, in theory. So why does thinking too much about the reality of living with his best friend, of seeing his favorite person with morning bedhead, of hearing her shuffle around the apartment in those ridiculous slippers make him so… nervous?
“Perfect.” Micah fluffs his hair again, the strawberry tint of his cheeks fading with relief. “I wanted to tell you—”
“Micah.”
“—but Pranav wanted to keep it hush until it was a done deal.” He reaches for Pranav’s hand and twines their fingers together. “Asshole.”
Micah’s tone is loving, adoring. Pranav’s pupils are heart-eye emojis. It’s disgusting how cute they are, Theo’s roommates. Ex-roommates. And it is an asshole move, this lack of notice. Theo should state this.
Instead, he lets them off easy. “It’s the end of an era.”
Five years ago, Theo didn’t know what to expect when he responded to Pranav’s post in an alumni Facebook Group. Open bedroom in Pasadena. $800/mo plus utilities. Comes with two chill roommates who adhere to a strict cleaning schedule and one less chill (but perfect) cat. What started as a roommate-ship of convenience with Pranav Singh and Micah Solomon has evolved into actual friendship, forever bonded by a reverence for pineapple on pizza, an obsession with Lost , and a traumatic bedbug incident.
Theo exits the living room to process their imminent departure and the possibility of Evelyn taking their place. He reaches for his phone to text her. But he can’t. She needs a beat. Meaning she’ll text him when she’s ready to talk. It’s an established boundary he won’t cross, not even when he has some major news—and a major proposal—for her. Instead, he pulls up the lease and reworks his budget, relieved that he can (barely) afford to split the rent two ways instead of three, relieved that he doesn’t have to let this spacious rent-controlled apartment go—
Except.
As he skims over the lease agreement, he notices a stipulation.
Each tenant must provide proof that their monthly salary is at least three times the rent.
Three times?
Each?
Maybe… it’s not an enforced stipulation?
Theo bolts from his desk. “Micah? Pranav? Is there a guarantor attached to our lease?”
“My parents,” Micah says, so casual, so oblivious, so privileged. “We never would’ve been approved for this place otherwise.”
“Right.”
Theo’s brain reverts to panic. Of course. Nothing is that easy. For a moment, he believed that he could fix Evelyn’s housing crisis.
But actually, shit , now he’s in one, too.