Chapter Nineteen
CHAPTER NINETEEN
CLAIRE
"Is it okay if my classmate Chris comes over to work on our project?" I ask Mark. He’s sitting at his desk with his laptop open and a cup of coffee beside him. His office door was open, so I don’t feel too bad about interrupting his work. "We need to finish our poetry analysis, and the library at school is closed for renovations tonight."
Mark looks up from his computer screen. "Chris?"
"From my English class," I explain. "We're partners for the group project."
He takes a long sip of coffee before answering. "Sure, you live here too. You don’t need to ask me for permission. When is he coming?"
"This evening. We'll work in the living room."
Mark nods, but something in his demeanor shifts. "I'll be around if you need anything." Neither of us knows how to act after I ran into a woman in the apartment last night, but the awkward tension radiates between us as I do my best to disguise my unwarranted sense of disappointment. I choose to ignore it for now and focus on the tasks at hand for the day. I need to go grocery shopping, so I shower and get dressed before making a list of all the items that we need from the store.
Since I’m in no hurry to get back to the apartment with the weird energy and unspoken words between Mark and me, I take my time perusing the aisles at the grocery store and wonder what it would be like to live like this all the time—not worrying about money (since Mark insists on me using one of his credit cards for the groceries), being able to spend my days cooking and housekeeping while pursuing my education and eventually my career—whatever that ends up being. I know this isn’t a forever thing, obviously, but it’s nice to play pretend for a little while, imagining this could be reality for more than just a few months.
But I’ll be out of Mark’s place as soon as I can, so he can go back to his nighttime flings and I can do things for myself instead of relying on someone else. I can still live a life like this , I tell myself, just with a tighter budget . I don’t need much—just a safe place to live, the ability to afford food, and the freedom to live my life how I choose. I don’t allow myself to consider how much I might miss Mark. Thinking about that will only hurt me in the long run, and I need to be able to gain some independence eventually. I only lasted three weeks on my own before he took me in, after all.
Later that evening, Chris arrives, wearing a bright smile and carrying his backpack. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I return his grin as I let him inside. He’s always been kind to me in class, offering help when I need it and making friendly conversation.
"Wow, this place is amazing," he says, looking around the apartment. His gaze lands on Mark, who's inexplicably decided to station himself at the kitchen counter with his laptop. "Is that your dad?"
Heat floods my cheeks and I don’t know whether to laugh or hide my face. My eyes flit to Mark, who thankfully is just far enough away to be out of earshot. "No, he's my, uh… friend."
"So, like, a roommate? Not your boyfriend?"
I snort at that. "Not my boyfriend, so yeah, like a roommate I guess."
We settle on the couch with our books and laptops, and I try to focus on outlining our compare/contrast analysis of two poems by Edgar Allan Poe. But Mark keeps moving around the kitchen, making more noise than I've ever heard him make before. Every few minutes, he's opening cabinets, running water, or reorganizing something.
"So," Chris says, leaning closer than necessary to look at my laptop screen, "I think we should really focus on the theme of grief in both of the poems we chose. That will also tie into the tones as well since they’re both hella depressing."
I laugh internally at the thought of putting the words "hella depressing" into our essay, though Chris does have a point. Poe was apparently not a very happy guy, at least based on what I can see from his writing.
Before I can answer, Mark's voice cuts in. "Anyone hungry? I'm making dinner."
I glance at the clock—it's barely 4 PM. "Already?"
"It's a slow-cooker recipe," he says, pulling out what seems like every pot and pan we own. "Takes time to prepare."
Chris brightens. "That's so nice of you! I love cooking too. What are you making?"
"Chicken gnocchi soup. "
"Oh, sweet! Like Olive Garden?"
Mark lets out a noise, something between a scoff and a laugh, and answers, "Sure, kid. Something like that," as if he’s offended by such a comparison. He turns his back to us and starts chopping an onion.
I turn back to our work, trying to ignore the rather aggressive vegetable chopping in the kitchen. "Anyway, yes, I think using the theme of grief as a common ground between the poems will be perfect. For the contrasting elements, maybe we can talk about how the tone of ‘The Raven’ is more fearful, while Annabel Lee is sort of somber?"
"Yeah, totally," Chris agrees, though his attention keeps drifting to the kitchen where Mark is now sautéing garlic and onions, the sizzling so loud we have to raise our voices. "By the way, there's this great coffee shop downtown where we could work next time if you want."
Mark’s stirring pauses, but he resumes within a second or two.
"Oh, um, maybe," I say noncommittally. "We might even be able to finish this tonight if we can focus."
For the next hour, we manage to make a good amount of progress despite Mark's periodic interruptions to ask if we need anything whenever he’s transitioning to a new cooking task. And when he’s not hovering, he’s making way too much noise in the kitchen, and irritation pulses within me.
"He’s—" Chris pauses, trying to find the right word "—intense."
Before I can respond, Mark appears with two glasses of water. "Here. Thought you might need to hydrate."
"Thanks," I say, increasingly confused by his behavior. "But we're okay—"
"Thank you," Chris says. Then, turning to me, he adds, " It’s awesome that you have such a thoughtful roommate."
Mark's jaw tightens at the word ‘roommate.’
"We should really focus on finishing this outline," I say, trying to steer us back to work. "The thesis statement still needs—"
"Are you staying for dinner, Chris?" Mark interrupts, his tone suggesting the opposite of hospitality.
"Oh, wow, really? That would be—"
"Actually," I cut in, finally finding my voice, "I don't think that's a good idea. We need to focus on the project, and Mark—" I turn to face him directly, "—you're being very distracting right now."
The room goes silent. Chris looks between us, clearly sensing the tension. Mark's expression cycles through surprise, indignation, and something else I can't quite read.
"I'm just trying to be hospitable." He crosses his arms.
"No, you're hovering," I reply, surprising myself with my firmness. I’ve never actually stood up for myself like this before. "And it's making it hard to work."
We stare at each other for a long moment, neither backing down. Finally, Mark nods and quietly returns to the kitchen, though I notice he stays within earshot.
Chris clears his throat. "Maybe I should go..."
"No," I say, turning back to my laptop. "We need to finish this outline at the very least."
We work for another hour, making real progress now that Mark has retreated to a sullen silence in the kitchen. When Chris finally leaves, declining Mark's dinner invitation with an awkward laugh, I close the door behind him and turn to face Mark.
"What was that about?"
He's stirring the soup in the slow cooker, not looking at me. "What was what about?" His tone is infuriatingly aloof.
"You know what. The interruptions, the hovering, you making as much noise as you possibly could in the kitchen."
"I was just being nice," he says.
"No, you were acting weird, and I don’t know why."
He finally turns to face me, his expression intense. "He was flirting with you."
"What? No, he wasn't. We're just project partners." I want to say more. I want to ask Mark why it even matters if Chris was flirting with me. He’s the one who brought a woman home, presumably to have sex with, after kissing me a couple weeks prior and walking away before either of us could talk about it.
Even though I knew it wouldn’t be likely we’d ever be more than friends, it still hurts like hell that he would move on so quickly after kissing me. Sure, it was spur of the moment, but did it really mean so little to him even when he knew it was a big deal to me?
Mark laughs, but it's not a happy sound. "He asked you to go out for coffee, but really, it was the way he was looking at you. He’s into you."
"That wasn't..." I trail off, thinking back not only to that but the way he always seems a little too eager to talk to me after class. "Oh."
"Yeah. Oh ." Mark smirks, but it doesn’t hold the same playfulness it usually does.
We stand in silence for a moment, the tension between us thick enough to cut with one of the knives he's been aggressively chopping vegetables with all evening.
"Well," I say, "even if he was, I'm not interested in him like that."
"No? "
"No, I’m not." I want to say, I’m interested in you, you idiot , but I don’t.
Another long moment passes, filled with all the things we're not saying. Finally, Mark turns back to the stove. "Dinner's ready if you're hungry."
"Sure."
But as we eat, there is no polite conversation like normal—or any conversation, for that matter. Something has shifted between us irreparably, and I don’t know what to do about it.