Chapter 1 #2
"Cool. Thanks for the memories," I say, channeling my inner yogi. Be at peace Rowan, be at peace. "I'll come get my plants tomorrow."
"That won't be necessary. We've packed your desk items. They'll be waiting for you at reception."
Super. The corporate walk of shame awaits.
"Awesome sauce," I say with all the enthusiasm of someone getting a root canal. "Can't wait."
Click.
I drop my phone onto my lap and stare at the ceiling. Am I being bitchy? Yes, I’m definitely being bitchy. Maybe I should've sucked up and asked for an extra week’s pay, but what’s the point? Rhonda is about as sympathetic as a brick wall.
Ding!
Then, as if the universe wants to kick me while I'm down, another notification pops up.
Jayson the Jerk (Landlord):
Just a heads-up, rent's going up next month! Gotta keep up with the market ??
I blink. I reread it. I consider arson. (Kidding. Mostly.) The emoji is somehow the worst part, it's like he finds casually telling me my entire foundation of stability is imploding just so funny, teehee!
I text back.
By how much?
Only 35%! Such a deal for this neighborhood now!
I drop my phone like it's burned me. Thirty-five percent.
THIRTY-FIVE PERCENT. That's not a rent increase; that's a hostage situation.
With my newfound unemployed status, I'm as appealing to landlords as a wet bag of trash.
I can already hear them now: Oh, you don't have a job or a trust fund?
Sorry, we're really looking for someone who can pay us.
There is no way I can afford that, especially now.
I grab a blanket off the back of the couch and pull it over my head, like I did when I was a kid, and I was hiding from monsters in my closet.
But the real monster is late-stage capitalism, and it does not care if I am curled into a ball under a crocheted throw.
Okay. Think Rowan. I have some savings. Not much. But if I stretch it…with the severance pay… nope, who am I kidding? Between rent, groceries, and the crushing weight of everyday living, I’ll be broke in 3 months. Maybe 4 if I live off instant ramen and despair.
There is a logical next step here. A responsible one. I could call my parents. Tell them what’s happening.
But then my eyes drift to my phone. There are sixteen missed calls from my parents.
Nope. Not dealing with that.
Approximately 10 minutes ago, I lost my job. Now, I've lost my home. And three weeks ago, I lost my sense of identity, familial trust, and any reasonable chance of emotional stability.
At this point, I'm pretty sure the universe is just using me as a cosmic stress ball.
Which is how I end up at 2:47 a.m., two pints-deep in slightly melted ice cream — Uncle Bubba’s Big Belly Butter Brickle— my emotional support flavor of choice when life decides to kick me repeatedly in the shins, scrolling a sketchy rental site called ClydesList, clearly created before the career field of graphic design was invented.
The layout is giving me 2005 PackSpace flashbacks, and every third listing has a photo that's either completely irrelevant or mildly terrifying.
Most of the listings are... horrifying. One guy wants a roommate to "co-own a lizard empire" (the photos show at least seventeen terrariums stacked precariously in what appears to be a bathroom).
Another is looking for someone to "help keep the ghosts company" (no photos, just a worrying red smudge in the corner of the picture).
There's a listing for a "cozy basement nook" that looks suspiciously like a crawlspace, and another for a "shared bedroom experience" that I scroll past so fast I almost give myself carpal tunnel.
But then, I see it.
Room for rent in a quiet small town. Three male roommates. All alphas. Large house. Quiet. Clean. Must be okay with shared space, construction, and mild ghost activity. (Kidding! It's an old house, but there are no ghosts. I promise!)
I pause, scrolling back up. The photos show a surprisingly delightful house—modern kitchen, spacious living room, a porch swing that practically screams "come drink wine and contemplate your life choices here.
" It's in a place called Vineyard Groves, which sounds made up, like a town in a Lovemark movie where everyone inexplicably owns a small business and falls in love at Christmas time.
The rent is... reasonable? Too reasonable? Like, "this might be a trap set by serial killers" reasonable.
My better judgment takes a nap. My desperation throws a party.
I type up a reply that is equal parts chaos and desperation:
Hi. I'm a recently unemployed accountant who's very clean and doesn't mind roommates. I can sort of bake. I will share snacks. I can make friends with ghosts. Probably. Please consider my offer. – Rowan Whitley
I hit send before I can overthink it, which is saying something because overthinking is my preferred form of exercise.
And less than five minutes later, a reply pops up.
"Room's available. 3 months minimum. When can you get here?"
I stare at the screen, ice cream spoon halfway to my mouth, a glob of it threatening to fall onto my already questionably dirty sweatpants. They responded. At 3 a.m. Who responds to housing inquiries at 3 a.m.? Serial killers, probably. Or insomniacs. Or, you know very dedicated property managers.
"Well," I mutter, licking the spoon clean, "what could possibly go wrong?"
Everything, says the tiny voice of reason in my head.
"Shut up," I tell it, and type: "I can be there by Friday."