17
Present, Cleveland, Ohio
When I arrive in Cleveland, it’s past 10:00 at night. A full moon sends its luminous spotlight down to the street, causing light and shadows to dance across the pavement. My old run-down car makes alarming wheezing noises as I pull into the apartment parking lot. It has a chronic oil leak that no mechanic can fix. Once I’m parked, I pop open the hood. I always carry a quart of oil in my trunk. Kicking myself because I forgot to bring a funnel, I carefully pour it into the engine, trying not to drip.
A low voice calls out behind me. “Hey, Tiffy. What’re you doing?”
Startled, I jump, and oil splashes onto the engine block.
Why does he always make me spill?
I’m still furious at Ethan about the “missing him” comment when he came back from the dentist and about how unhappy he looked when he learned we were going to Cleveland together. I’ve also spent a large part of my drive reminding myself that he’s my competition for the Resident of the Month award.
“Refilling the oil. My car has a leak,” I answer brusquely.
Ethan has parked his SUV right next to mine. It’s a sleek black BMW, a limited edition from the looks of it. A swell of jealousy rises and settles in my throat. As if I needed more reasons to dislike him.
Leaning against the front of my car, he watches as I finish up. “Who knew you’re so talented? A woman who can name all 206 bones in the body and put oil in her car. Not bad.” The lopsided smile is back.
Looks like Ethan got over not wanting to be here with me.
He’s acting like his usual self now, brash and annoying. It’s a relief. He had been unusually quiet that last day at the hospital when we found out we were coming here. I had almost been worried about him.
Done with the oil, I use my full body weight to slam the heavy car hood closed. Ethan jumps back dramatically, pretending like I was going to crush his fingers. I narrow my eyes at him and earn a wide smirk.
“I got the keys to our apartment from the manager. Ready to see it?” Ethan dangles two sets of silver keys from his finger. They glint in the moonlight.
“Wait.” I tense. “Did you just say our apartment? Like we’re sharing one?” An uncomfortable feeling buzzes in my brain. It hadn’t occurred to me to think much about the living situation. Dr. Washburn had told us that the hospital was providing complimentary housing, but he hadn’t elaborated further.
Ethan’s looking at me like I’m crazy. “Yeah. One apartment. You didn’t really believe the hospital would pay for two separate ones, did you? You know how cheap they are.”
He’s right. Hospitals often provide free food and lodging, but at the least possible cost. It’s usually run-down buildings and mass-produced food. This will be no exception. It’s going to be a long four weeks if I have to live with Ethan.
After gathering my luggage from the trunk, I squint through the bright glare of the parking lot lights to inspect my new residence. It’s a two-story concrete building with outside stairwells leading to the upper floors. A couple of bikes are chained to rusted iron railings. For a minute, I have a sense of disorientation, of déjà vu, thinking that I’m looking at my old apartment in Las Vegas. Old instincts kick in, and I glance around, trying to assess if we’re in a bad part of town.
“Did you live here when you worked at this hospital?” My eyes rove over my surroundings as I move my suitcase closer, scooting it over with my foot.
“Nah. My place was way nicer than this.” Ethan’s answer doesn’t assuage my fear, and I hesitate.
Ethan grabs both his bag and my small suitcase. “Come on, Tiffy. Last one in is a rotten egg.” He takes the metal steps two at a time.
“Stop calling me that.” I swear he’s trying to irritate me on purpose.
Ethan puts the key in the lock and turns the deadbolt. The door sticks for a second, then pops open with a squeal of protest from its hinges. I hurry as he enters, not wanting to be left outside alone.
Ethan turns on the light switch, revealing the interior of the apartment. It’s an open floor plan. A small round dining table is in front of us. Further in the room sits a dated loveseat, coffee table, and bulky television. A low countertop with bar stools separates the living room from the small kitchen, which runs along the right wall. Black appliances reflect the harsh rectangular lights overhead. We walk down the short hallway to explore the rest of the apartment. There’s a small bathroom with a shower-tub combo. It has ugly mustard-yellow tile and carpeted floor.
“Yuck. Who puts carpet in a bathroom?” I cringe. Every germ I learned about in microbiology class comes rushing back, and I’m convinced they all live in that carpet.
Ethan shakes his head. “I don’t know. That’s disgusting.”
At the end of the hall are two small bedrooms. They each hold matching furniture—a scarred wooden dresser, a nightstand with a lamp on it, and a twin bed.
“Which one do you want?” He hands over my suitcase.
I choose the one on the right, and Ethan goes left. After I drop the suitcase on the floor, I lay down on the bed without bothering to pull back the bedding. The thin comforter is scratchy beneath me. It’s the firmest bed I’ve ever felt, like lying on top of a boulder.
I groan.
Even though we’re separated by a wall, Ethan must hear me, because he yells, “What’s wrong?” His voice is so loud it’s like he’s right there, in the room with me.
“This is the hardest mattress I’ve ever laid on. It might as well have nails sticking out of it,” I answer without raising my voice. I want to see if he can hear if I talk normally. His answering chuckle tells me that he understands just fine.
“Wow. These walls are really thin,” I say. I shift, trying and failing to find a comfortable position.
“I know. I can hear you, too.”
Rolling onto my side, I face the wall that separates our bedrooms and tease, “Now you’ll keep me up all night with your snoring.”
“Hey, who said I snored?” he protests from the other room.
“I’m sure you snore with that gigantic head of yours. I wouldn’t be surprised if you have sleep apnea.” My mouth curves into a smile, which I’m glad he can’t see. I’m enjoying this banter a little too much. I need to remember that Ethan is my competition, not my friend.
“No snoring or sleep apnea, but I’ll still keep you up at night because listen to this.” Through the wall, I hear him bounce on his bed. The bedsprings make a loud, harsh, squeaking noise every time he moves.
“Stop!” I giggle. “That’s awful. I give this place a negative one-star rating. Do not recommend.” That sends Ethan off in a burst of laughter.
I laugh with him, enjoying how our voices merge and echo, bouncing around the small apartment.
Competition or not, maybe it won’t be so bad living here with him.
Curious to see what Ethan’s doing, I walk into his room. He’s lying on his back in bed with his sneaker-clad feet hanging off the end. He’s dejected, full lips turned down in the corners. When he sees me, he says, “I’m not so worried about snoring. I’m more worried about how I’m supposed to sleep in this bed. It’s clearly made for a child.”
He looks so ridiculous, laying there with his feet dangling, that it makes me laugh even harder.
“Easy for you to find this funny. You fit in your bed. I feel like Gulliver in a bed made for Lilliputians.” Ethan squirms. Rolls onto his side and draws his knees up to fit his feet on the mattress. He tucks his hand under his cheek like a child.
“That sucks. I’m sorry,” I sympathize.
A moment of silence stretches out as I stand there, watching Ethan. He stills, staring back at me. It occurs to me that it’s just us here, the two of us, alone in this apartment. It’s oddly intimate.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat, “we should start getting ready to go to sleep. Why don’t you use the bathroom first?”
“You sure?” He’s already getting up and gathering his things.
“Yeah, I’ll go after you’re done.”
The bathroom door closes with a soft click. Back in my bedroom, I unpack my clothing into the dresser drawers. Although I try not to listen, I hear the toilet flush and the sink faucet running. It’s strange, listening to Ethan’s evening routine through the wall. Such a private time of the day, usually reserved for solitude or to be shared with a lover. It feels like eavesdropping on a conversation I’m not meant to hear.
Something about it makes me self-conscious. Knowing that in a few minutes, he’ll listen to me in the same way. I tell myself to play it cool. There’s no need for things to get weird. After what seems like a long time, the door creaks open and Ethan emerges. The clean smell of soap clings to him as he comes to stand in my doorway. “Your turn.”
Throwing my towel over my shoulder, I pick up the small bag with all my supplies. I tease, “I think you take longer in the bathroom than I do.”
Ethan follows me down the hall. His crooked smile is disarming, and his breath is minty as I brush past. “I have an elaborate system to keep these perfect teeth shining.” Cocky, as usual. He leans nonchalantly against the bathroom door frame, tilts his head to the side, and stares at me. His eyes boldly trace the angle of my nose, my jaw, my mouth. I gulp down a swallow, my throat suddenly dry. It’s unnerving to have him here, much too close, invading my personal space with all his yummy-smelling manliness.
“Whatever.” I roll my eyes, shove him out into the hallway, and shut the door in his pretty face.
Once inside, I pause, staring at Ethan’s wet toothbrush and half-squeezed toothpaste next to the sink. The bag holding the rest of his toiletries sits partially open. I resist the urge to peek into it, to see what lotions and potions he uses. He’s placed his items in a heap on the left side of the sink, so I neatly arrange my stuff on the right.
Quickly and quietly, I get ready for bed. Toothbrush. Hairbrush. I button up my white pajama shirt to the top and pull the drawstring tight on my matching shorts. I leave the bathroom and stop by Ethan’s room to say good night. He’s in bed, reading a book titled The Baseball 100. White sheets are tucked up under his arms. He’s not wearing a shirt, exposing the toned muscles of his upper chest and shoulders.
My eyes dart away, trying not to gawk as I stutter. “I—I just wanted to say good night.”
Ethan seems embarrassed at being caught half-naked, mumbling, “Sorry, I can’t sleep with a shirt on.”
“It’s okay.” I stare at the wall above his head. “Well, good night.”
“Good night, Tiffy.” Ethan puts his book face down on the nightstand and turns off his lamp.
Back in my room, I get settled under the covers. Stretching my arm out, I lean over and turn off my bedside lamp. The room plunges into complete and utter darkness. Out of habit, I left the door half open. It’s so dim that I can’t make out the hallway beyond my door frame. There’s just a black pit out there, an abyss. My heartbeat speeds up, a loud thump, thump, thump.
After a moment, I whisper, “It’s really dark, isn’t it?” I speak so softly that I don’t expect Ethan to hear, but his answer is immediate.
His disembodied voice floats back to me. “Do you want me to turn on the bathroom light? I can leave the door open a crack. It’ll be like a night-light.”
“Do you mind?” I hate to ask, but I don’t want to get up. Fears I usually silence have awakened. Little bird whispers a voice from my past.
“It’s no problem.” Fumbling sounds from his room. A sharp curse followed by Ethan announcing, “I’m okay. Just stubbed my toe.” Finally, he turns on the bathroom light and partly closes the door, leaving a sliver of yellow to travel up the hallway and illuminate our rooms.
Ethan comes to my bedroom to evaluate the result. He pushes my door all the way open. “What do you think?”
He’s standing in my doorway, caught in that golden beam of light. I can’t answer for a moment. Too busy staring at him bare-chested in the glow. It highlights his tall, slim frame. The light makes the ridges of his well-defined muscles stand out in sharp contrast. He has a fine smattering of curling chest hair. The drawstring of his pants is undone, and they hang low on his body. Sharp hipbones peek out on each side with the hollow of his taut stomach between them.
He’s stunning.
“Tiffy?” he questions into the silence.
“It’s fine. Totally fine. Thanks.” My voice is too fast and too high.
“No problem.” The details of Ethan’s body are lost as he walks back to his room. His bed squeaks when he climbs in. “Good night, Tiffy. I hope you can get some sleep.”
“You too. Good night.” I calm my racing heart and then, as an afterthought, add, “Try not to snore too loud from your enormous head.”
Ethan’s laughter is the last thing I hear before I fall asleep.