4. The Roommate
Chapter 4
The Roommate
I lie that it’s the rain keeping me awake, but I’ve told myself that too often in the past to believe it now. Some people might drink warm milk, rub some lavender-scented lotion on their skin, or pop a melatonin gummy on nights when insomnia won’t allow for sleep. But Grandma always suggested a steaming mug of decaf and a brownie.
“Your belly is just cold and empty,” she’d say.
Luckily, I have a meticulously crafted, fail-proof plan for the nights when the critical voice, that sounds suspiciously like my mother’s, won’t shut up. The nights when I can’t figure out what exactly it is that Sam sees in me. The nights when the threat of failure hovers like a dark cloud, ticking faster and faster until I finally give up my act of self-restraint and rise from Sam’s bed in search of the closest thing I can find to Grandma’s hugs.
I wait for Sam’s third deep breath, slowly tiptoe around the bed, avoiding the spot by the bedpost because it creaks, and slip out the door.
If Sam catches me, it’s no big deal, but I prefer to avoid the lecture about sugar and eating late at night. And when someone tells me I shouldn’t eat something, it only makes me want it more. Sure, I could put on my big girl pants, put my foot down, and tell him to shut it. One day, I’ll do that. Until then, it’s hard to argue with, “You shouldn’t eat your feelings,” and “I’m just trying to look out for your health, I love you.” Unfortunately, the closest thing Sam has in his apartment to a brownie is a brownie-flavored protein bar, which is absolutely not the same. But it’ll have to do.
I brew a cup of decaf and listen to the rain pelt the windows until my ‘fail-proof plan’ fails.
At the jangling of keys unlocking the doorknob, I realize I forgot to adjust the plan to accommodate Sam’s new roommate. He moved in two weeks ago and we have yet to meet. For that, I’m grateful because I dread meeting new people. I dread people in general because I don't know how to be warm, welcoming, or likable, and I exhaust myself trying to be so.
I know nothing about this mysterious man except that he used to be Sam’s teammate in college, and that he moved back to town because of a job. But I don’t know his name, what he looks like, or what kind of job he moved back for.
When he walks in the front door, he drops his keys on the side table. Then, he turns into the kitchen, stopping dead when he sees my shape standing alone in the dark wielding a protein bar and coffee cup as if they’re a weapon and shield. Wearing nothing but a short, tight, cotton chemise nightgown that I wouldn’t even own if Sam didn't scoff anytime I wore my usual sweatpants.
I can’t see him well with only the clouded moonlight streaming through the windows, but I can tell his hair is dark, possibly black. His broad shoulders and build tell me he was probably one of those guys who blocked or something when he played football with Sam.
I want to throw away the rest of my midnight snack and run back to the safety of Sam’s room, but his towering frame blocks my exit as we both size each other up. I feel the touch of his gaze skimming down my body, not intimately, but curiously.
“You the girlfriend?” he finally asks, his deep voice smooth as satin.
“Yes. You the roommate?” I cringe. Obviously, he’s the roommate, but it’s too late with the question already hanging awkwardly between us.
He nods and the AC kicks on, the breeze against my skin alerting me, once again, to how exceedingly little I’m wearing. I hunch my shoulders and bend my knees, trying, unsuccessfully, to urge the white lace trim to fall lower on my thighs. He tilts his head in question at my position before suddenly averting his gaze, then holds out the jacket he had draped over his arm.
“You’re cold.” It’s a statement to be taken as fact, but he misunderstands my reasoning for trying to cover myself.
Confused, I say, “No, I’m good.”
“No, you’re cold,” he insists.
I notice his eyes bounce off my chest before darting away. I glance down to see what he was trying to avoid and notice my hard nipples poking through the thin fabric. My whole face heats with embarrassment. I take the jacket, slightly damp in places from the rain, and slide my arms through, making sure to zip it up all the way. A smooth woodsy scent drifts up from the fabric, subtle and pleasant.
Sliding his hands in his pockets, he rocks back on his heels. “Can’t sleep?”
“No,” I answer simply.
He jerks his chin toward the food in my hands. “Having dessert?” I search his question for any judgment, but it sounds genuine.
“Yes,” I state plainly, daring him to make a comment about eating in the middle of the night.
“Why are you eating it alone in the dark?”
I decide honesty is the best route to take. “I was hungry and Sam was asleep. Plus, I didn’t want to hear a lecture about eating sugar or eating too late.” He considers my answer for a moment before nodding, and heads to the freezer. He pulls out a pint-sized ice cream container, grabs a spoon, and comes to stand next to me against the counter.
I find myself paralyzed by my uncertainty of whether I should leave or stay, so I nibble on the protein bar, too concerned with the presence next to me to really taste it. If I weren’t so shy, I’d ask him his name, what he does for work, the usual small talk. But I’m me, and maybe he doesn't want to talk anyway. The rain outside has softened, allowing the awkward silence to pulse in my ears, magnifying every crinkle of the wrapper, every crunch of the walnuts, and every sound of my swallowing.
He manages to put away the entire pint in a few minutes before pushing off the counter and saying, “Night.”
“Goodnight.” As soon as he’s out of sight, my hands fly up to cover my face. Talk about first impressions.
Once I finish the coffee and snack, I lay the jacket over the arm of the couch and sneak back to Sam’s room. I still can’t sleep, though now I lay awake mortified over my nipples.
* * *
I leave the car running after I park, hoping the AC will help to cool my skin. My mind goes a thousand miles a minute and I struggle to get a full breath, like an overworked computer whose fans are blocked. But my car blows whatever temperature it is outside and does nothing to bring relief to the sweltering heat.
Going over my answers in my head one last time, I can’t be more prepared than I am now, and if I happen to get the job, I promise myself never to leave, so I’ll never have to go through this stress again.
I know everything there is to know about the job I’m interviewing for. I looked up the company online and researched the different types of businesses they work with. For example, I know they roast coffee beans and sell them to privately labeled businesses, hotels, and a few smaller restaurants. I know their most popular flavors are their breakfast blends and dark roasts, and their single origin, organic, and unique blends. I know that they have a team of experts who can create pretty much any flavor their customers dream of. I even know that they source their coffee beans from Colombia, Ethiopia, Guatemala, and Papua New Guinea.
I arrived too early to go inside because I wanted to allow for traffic, to prove my punctuality and preparedness. I wish I could tell them about my emergency bag that sat in the passenger seat beside me, but being too prepared is just as unappealing as being unprepared. Inside the bag is my make-up ready to be applied at the last minute so that it doesn’t melt off my face, baby wipes, extra deodorant, a lint roller, two extra outfits in case of sweat, and stain remover. I also had an extra copy of my application that I submitted online, my lacking resume, and my references in a black folder that I will take inside with me. The only thing left to stress over is my stuttering and my tendency to forget how to form complete sentences when under pressure.
When it’s almost time for my interview, I wipe my face down, reapply my deodorant, run the lint roller over my clothes, and apply my make-up. Then I step out of the car.
Once inside, I approach the lady at the reception desk with a smile that I hope isn’t creepy, and let her know my name and why I am here. She asks me to take a seat on one of the gray chairs off to the side, and I act as if the interview has already started. I’m polite as I thank her, and patient as I wait an entire hour for them to call me back. An hour . Whereas, if I arrived even five minutes late, they probably wouldn’t let me interview at all. I spend that entire hour in physical pain as my heart pounds and my body screams for breath that I can’t help but hold. I just want to get this over with so that I can go home and escape underneath my covers.
I am more nervous than normal because a job working for a coffee roasting company is perfect for me. The only business that could top it is something book-related, like a printer or publisher.
When the receptionist finally calls my name, I follow her back to an office where a lady with dark hair and bright pink lipstick sits behind a desk, appearing bored as she looks at her computer. She doesn’t say anything when the door shuts behind me, and I stand at a fork in the road—should I introduce myself and take a seat, therefore interrupting whatever she’s doing? Or should I wait quietly until she’s finished and asks me to take a seat? What is the polite thing to do? The normal thing? The option that won’t cause her to dismiss me so quickly?
And why do simple decisions like this one feel like life or death?
She finally spares me a glance over the top of her glasses, and I smile and introduce myself as boldly as I can. If you don’t have confidence, you should fake it, Dad always tells me. Because that’s easy to do.
“Hi, I’m Cori Anderson.” I extend a hand over her desk and she takes it, although I almost jerk her arm out of its socket with the strength of my handshake. Dad also tells me that no one wants to shake hands with spaghetti and that a firm handshake shows you’re serious and assured. But, as usual, I do the right thing only for it to be the wrong thing.
I mutter a small apology as she rubs her arm.
“Catherine,” she states. “Have a seat.”
She picks up a sheet of paper from her desk and looks it over. I assume it is my resume and I feel myself start scratching at my wrist, my nerves taking control over my body.
“The position we have available is for an administrative assistant. You’d be filing paperwork, writing emails, taking meeting notes, things like that. I don’t see any work history with those duties, do you think you’d be able to handle those responsibilities?”
“Yes, I do. We help out the manager every once in a while at the diner, where I currently work, with paperwork and emails. I’m a quick learner as well, so if there’s something I don’t know how to do now, I’ll pick it up in no time.” My words come out too fast and my breathing is ragged.
She stares at me for a second too long, either because she doesn’t believe me, she hears that declaration too often from applicants, or maybe she is checking for signs of a heart attack. I adjust the gray blazer I wear over a plum-colored, buttoned shirt and clear my throat. She looks at my resume and asks, “I see you have an associate’s in business. Do you have any plans to continue your education?”
“Possibly in the future. Currently, I’m eager to put into practice everything I’ve learned so far. And to find roots.” I’m not quite satisfied with that answer, though, so I continue. “I’ve also taken some extra courses online, although they weren’t accredited courses. Communication and Planning, Fundamentals of-”
She cuts me off. “Yes, I see those listed. What would you say are your strengths?”
I hate the strengths and weaknesses questions. They’re hard to get right and difficult not to make yourself look pompous or inadequate simultaneously. But I soldier on because I don’t have a choice. “I consider myself to have a lot of strengths such as multitasking, the ability to stay focused and get work done promptly, I’m a quick learner as I said earlier. I’m also reliable and trustworthy.” I swallow hard, knowing what her next question will be.
“And your weaknesses?”
“Well, to be honest, I’m… reserved. But- but really that’s a good thing.” I let out a shaky laugh. “You won’t catch me wasting time by the water cooler or getting sidetracked. You know, with coworkers. Chatting.” I cringe. I’ve practiced that exact sentence a thousand times. To sell something, you have to be confident about it, whether or not it’s right. But no matter how many times I delivered it to myself perfectly in the bathroom mirror, the judging eyes of each interviewer that I encounter trip me every time.
My wrist is raw; one more scratch and I’ll draw blood.
“Do you have any questions for me?” she asks. We’ve concluded the interview too quickly, a horrible sign.
I know that it’s usually good to ask questions whether you care about the answers or not, so I say, “I’ve done a bit of research on the company, and am passionate about coffee myself, and I think it will be an amazing opportunity to work here. I was wondering what the advancement opportunities will look like for this position. For someone with my background.”
She sits up in her chair, her features softening. “Well, you could enter sales and work directly with our clients. You said you’ve researched us?”
I tell her what I’ve learned, hoping I’m showing my interest and seriousness without coming off too eager.
“Most applicants come in here not having a clue about us. And a lot of them don’t even drink coffee. Not that it’s a requirement, but having some knowledge about the taste, and a willingness to try the flavors helps,” she states, a small smile toying with her lips.
We end up spending about fifteen minutes talking about the company, then more about coffee, and by the time we shake hands goodbye, Catherine has given me a reassuring smile with the promise to get back to me as soon as possible.
On my way out of the building, I thank the receptionist and walk to my car with footsteps lighter and bouncier than they have been in a long time. I may actually have a shot this time. I want to call Dad and Sam and tell them how surprisingly great the interview went, but I decide not to jinx myself.
Grandma always told me, “The right thing will come along at the right time. You just have to be patient.” Maybe it’s finally the right time.
* * *
I t isn’t. I realize that shortly after I pull over to the shoulder on my route home.
I was driving down the highway, singing at the top of my lungs, proud of myself for once at how well the interview went when my tire blew.
I just replaced a flat a month prior, after buying a whole new set of tires the previous year, but I wasn’t about to let a blown tire take out my mental sanity, so I looked on the bright side of things before I got out of the car. At least it happened on my way from the interview rather than making me late. And at least it’s on the right side of my car, rather than the left, which is just feet from traffic speeding by on the freeway. And if a vehicle comes slamming into mine, crushing me against the concrete wall and ending my life, well… then I won’t have to stress about finding money for a new tire.
Just as I was pulling the door handle, my phone dinged with a new email.
Ms. Anderson,
I appreciate you taking the time to interview with us today. However, we’ve decided to go in a different direction.
Catherine Ramos
Houston Roasting Company
Quick and painful.
Now, I stand beside the tire in question, watching a black truck pull over ahead of my car. I hope they’re having their own issues and their pulling over has nothing to do with me, but my heartbeat picks up when they start driving in reverse to be closer to my car.
I mentally prepare myself for whatever danger may step out of the truck. It might be an innocent citizen who sees a woman with a shredded tire and assumes she doesn’t know what she is doing.
Or it could be a sex trafficker. Or a sicko who likes to make suits out of thicker women's bodies like the villain in a movie Sage forced me to watch once.
I’m armed with a jack, the heaviest thing I have with me, so unless the person has a gun, I have a good shot at survival. If I put all of my hurt from not getting the job and anger at the vindictive tire into my swing, I am pretty much guaranteed to win a fight with just about anyone right now.
A tall, muscular man with dark hair steps out of the truck, wearing a long-sleeved shirt and khakis and carrying a lug wrench. Reason tells me it is most likely for the lug nuts on my tire, but fear tells me it is to knock me unconscious, making me easier to transport.
“You know it’s dangerous to be on the side of the freeway?” he calls out. As he approaches, I recognize his features.
“Sam’s roommate?” I ask. I still don’t know his name.
“Yeah, it’s Nick. I thought it looked like you, but I couldn’t tell completely.”
“Umm… so, where else am I supposed to change this?” I gesture to the tire in response to his question.
“You’re supposed to call roadside service, a friend, a tow truck.” He waves his hand in a circle indicating the multiplicity of options.
“I can’t afford roadside service or a tow truck, and there’s no one to call.” Sage is never available if she even hears the phone ring. I can’t call my best friend, Hailey, because she’s at work.
“Sam?” His question is sarcastic, but he doesn’t seem to understand how unappealing that option is. If I call him, Sam will pay for a tow truck and my new tire, then use it against me later. “Or even Tyler or Callum? I’m sure they’d come in a heartbeat.”
I lift a shoulder. “I know how to change it myself. There’s no point in bothering someone else.”
He seems to accept that answer. “You have a spare in the trunk?”
“Yes, but, as I said, I know how to change it so you’re free to leave.” I wince. I don’t mean it to sound rude. My intention is to let him know he doesn’t need to burden himself with my problem. Plus, I’d rather avoid the small talk he probably expects.
He takes the jack out of my hand. “If I help, you’ll get back in your car, therefore to safety, faster.” He jacks up the car before looking over his shoulder at me with his dark brown eyes.
Feeling awkward under his gaze, I quickly move to the trunk and grab the spare tire.
“So, your dad taught you how to change tires?” he asks, as if a woman could only learn such a thing from a man. I leave out the fact that it was a man demonstrating in the video that I watched.
“No. Online videos taught me.” I also know how to change my own oil and air filter, change and charge my battery, and check fluids. But the rest of the car is foreign to me. I could learn how to fix other things if I watched enough videos, but car maintenance isn’t my idea of fun, only a necessary inconvenience.
As we’re putting the jack and wrench back in the trunk, I thank him as sincerely as I can, but it comes out fake and unnatural, almost sounding as if I don’t mean it. I add a smile, but that too feels foreign and awkward.
He stares at my face a moment too long, probably weirded out, before saying, “It’s no problem. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you to replace the tire as soon as possible?”
“I’ve been through this a few times.”
He nods and takes off for his truck. Leaving me alone to wonder what went wrong at the interview.
I walk out of most of them knowing for a fact that I won’t be called back and offered a job. But I felt good today. Most of my answers came out clearly; exactly as I had rehearsed them, but without sounding practiced. My tone was friendly, I smiled instead of my usual accidental scowl, and I thought my responses, while not perfect, were acceptable. I arrived a few minutes early, I waited patiently, and my outfit was modest and professional. And the job listing claimed an entry-level, no-experience-required position.
I go home for the thirty minutes before I need to leave for work, wishing I had royally screwed up. Then I’d know what is so unappealing about myself as a potential employee. If I was just given a chance, I could be a valuable asset. Unless I truly am blind to how worthless I am.